


Sharp and Shiny General Lavellan AU

by Feynite, Little_Lotte, scurvaliciousbay



Series: Sharp and Shiny [6]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe- Freeform, Looking Glass
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:21:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 70,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25175302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feynite/pseuds/Feynite, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Lotte/pseuds/Little_Lotte, https://archiveofourown.org/users/scurvaliciousbay/pseuds/scurvaliciousbay
Summary: Stuff I wrote with and for Feynite for her General Lavellan AU on tumblr.Bleeds into the ever popular Baby Fenris AU, because I'm too lazy to make a separate thing for it. <3
Relationships: OC/OC, Uthvir/Lavellan
Series: Sharp and Shiny [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/524539
Comments: 5
Kudos: 22





	1. We Sing of Beginnings

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [General Lavellan](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6529174) by [Feynite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feynite/pseuds/Feynite). 



It begins with a fountain.

Fountains are, of course, an important fixture of most of Arlathan’s architecture. Uthvir knows there are reasons for this that require esoteric explanations of folklore and superstition and magical energies and the transitional flow of essences between suchlike and so forth. No one actually cares, unless they are remarkably pedantic. The real reason is usually more to do with water being pretty and sparkly and artisans thinking themselves very clever when they replace it with flame.

Keeping the majority of Arlathan’s fountains running is something within the purview of June and Sylaise’s serving class. Which means that whenever someone gets it into their head to build a monumental new water feature (or ‘other-thing-in-a-fountain’ feature), it is generally June’s maintenance workers who have to do the legwork and the plumbing and all the actual, functional tasks to get the idea off the ground and working. And it is the Head Manager of City Planning who must approve the designs. Ostensibly.

Usually it is more like poor Darellath has to make whatever idea the evanuris in question has settled upon work without jamming up every pipe and free-flowing magicway in the city’s infrastructure in the process. That Falon’Din largely considers permits beneath him and keeps siphoning power off of the city’s wellspring to run his moronic blood fountains does not help. June and Sylaise’s own artisans and designers are well-versed in this subject, but the servants of other evanuris – particularly those outside of Arlathan – often are not.

Which means that whenever someone else decides to build a fountain, half the maintenance people in the city collectively curse the heavens.

Of course, while this may be a common plight for June’s people in general, none of it is actually _Uthvir’s_ job. Uthvir is ostensibly a cartographer, and truthfully a spy.

But they are also sometimes a ‘whatever the general needs’ person. There had been a few touch-and-go weeks in their early service when they had worried what precisely that would entail, before Desire figured out why they were antsy and calmly explained that it would probably entail going into a lot of small, dark tunnels, and killing demons. And sometimes ruining Falon’Din’s day.

Uthvir likes the ‘ruining Falon’Din’s day’ jobs.

This week, though, their task it much more ‘going into small, dark tunnels and killing demons’.

Back when large parts of the city were still under construction, the general devised – in secret – a series of interconnected tunnels used to rescue excess bits of sacrificed spirits and energy from the wellspring underneath the city. While this largely makes Elgar’nan’s tributes to Elvhenan less overall devastating, it also means that sometimes, nasty things get set loose in the pipes. Since the general does not want anyone figuring out where they are all coming from, that means only her most trusted people are permitted to handle the issue.

Uthvir often finds themselves rethinking the benefits of being on that list whenever they have to squeeze their way down through one of the access points, dressed up like a maintenance worker, and go kill something that will make the claustrophobia of the experience _infinitely_ worse.

But they cannot even get that upset about it, because whenever the general is in the city, she does this herself _every week._

And so Uthvir draws the short straw at breakfast, and accepts Desire’s commiserating back-pats, and makes their way towards Ghilan’nain’s grand estate. Where various servants and artisans and apprentices are hurrying around, along with some of Sylaise’s people, trying to get the new fixture for the courtyard up and working. Half the flooring is dug out, and there is gigantic tank of multi-coloured turtles swimming just by the main gate, looking rather placidly concerned with everything that is going on. Uthvir is rather surprised that they are so benign; but then one of them snaps at the other and opens up a mouth full of sharp teeth and ah, _there_.

They see Ghilan’nain’s handiwork, now.

Some poor little servant has been given the task of feeding the things. Like most of Ghilan’nain’s people, she seems cheerfully nonplussed about the job, as she climbs a ladder up the side of the tank. Hauling a basket of dead fish, which she then begins throwing into various corners and segments; attempting to evenly distribute it among the suddenly-ravenous turtles.

She is a fair enough sight, Uthvir thinks. Golden skin, much like their own, and blonde hair that catches the sunlight. Her ladder shifts against the tank, and the turtles change colours, splashing and swimming and even popping their heads up. Despite their sharp teeth, though, it seems they are asking for pats; which the servant of Ghilan’nain happily provides them with.

They tear their gaze away, and head for the entrance point to the sewers.

One day, they are going to figure out how to use Falon’Din’s siphoning of the city’s power to induce an ‘accident’ which will blow his entire palace off of the borders of the city. With him in it.

And that will make all of this entirely worthwhile.

They slip down into the narrow tunnel – which is really more waterway than sewer, in truth, and at least does not smell – and activate the soft-glowing light runes in the floor. Then they close up the entrance behind them, reminding themselves that it is easy enough to open again, and begin to make their way down to where the renovations to Ghilan’nain’s estate might run afoul of Arlathan’s extraneous plumbing.

They have to consult their map a few times, but eventually they reach one of the hidden byway’s outlet points, that has been opened up for the work overhead, and take stock of the area. No signs of trouble yet, they determine. The magical resonances are normal, and nothing has set off the invisible wards, or disturbed the entrances to the other tunnels.

With a deep internal sigh, they settle in to wait. Six hours before Turmoil will show up to replace them, and likely nothing much will happen. Or something terrible will attack them. Give or take. They prop themselves up on a bench built-in for just such occasions, and listen to the sounds of the work crew overheard. After a few minutes they pull a tiny clockwork dancer they have been working on out of their pack, and set about fiddling with it. They’d found it in one of the garbage piles near June’s incinerators. The legs tend to go all sideways, and they cannot figure out why.

They are still pondering the failure when a rushing sound reaches their ears. Pausing, they put the doll back into their pack, and go and investigate. One of the other waterways has been opened, they note. Probably to do a test run of some of the new plumbing. Their own section has not been compromised, and so they turn to go back to what they were doing.

And then they hear the yelling.

Dull but distinctive, the alarmed cries of someone amidst the rushing water in the other tunnels.

Well.

_Something_ has gone wrong.

After only a moment’s consideration – probably, yes, they should help – they take off following the sounds of the shouting, weaving away from their post and opening up another pathway, the tunnels gleaming as their boots smack across the smooth surface, moving swiftly enough that the shifting glow-lights fall just half a step behind them. They lose track of the voice but they can still hear the water, and they _think_ they know where it is going to let out.

Chancing things on their instincts, they open up one of the deeper hatchways and speed down the ladder, their gloves hissing by the time they actually hit the bottom. They sink into the darkness. Pitch black, before the light catches up with them.

Then they hear it; a single, choking cough.

“Hello?” they call, dashing towards the mouth of the nearest outlet. The light flickers, and that is… concerning, but they can check on that in a minute. Some more choke sputtering reaches them, stemming from a distinctly upwards direction, and they look up and just barely see the outline of a small elf dangling from the edge of a tunnel above. One of the narrow waterways. Uthvir winces; those spaces are smooth, at least, from the water that goes rushing through them. But they are also hard and narrow and not meant to be traversed by elves.

“Hold on; I will find a way to reach you,” the call up.

Incoherent sputtering is their answer, at first. But then a thin, water-logged voice calls down to them.

“There is more coming! Hurry!”

Uthvir considers.

Magic sometimes interacts poorly with the various wards and spells in place in the tunnels, and depositing points are the worst places to try anything funny. They know that firsthand.

Fortunately, there is another approach they can take.

Moving back a step, they shrug out the muscles in their shoulders, and then take a running leap at the dark opening in front of them. The air wavers only a little as they unfurl a set of massive, golden-brown wings, and launch themselves upwards; straining intensely as they flap to hold their weight for long enough to gather the dangling elf into their arms.

It is a more ungainly process than one might hope, sprouting wings and plucking lost elves away from pipes. Their feathers smack against the tunnel walls, and the rescue process is made somewhat additionally awkward when they realize the elf they are saving is carrying one of Ghilan’nain’s sharp-toothed turtles, nearly swings it into their face; and then they do a poor job on the landing, trying to swerve back to where they’d taken off from, but they do not have enough space to move, and instead they have to angle for a tunnel even further below that one.

Their timing is good, though. They have scarcely gotten themselves through before another rush of water comes, and spills out into the darkness. And then they activate _this_ tunnel’s lights, and realize that the elf in their arms is same one they had seen feeding the turtles not a few moments before.

They hang onto her for a moment, as she holds the turtle’s mouth to keep it from biting their face, and stares up at them wide-eyes and soaked through, covered in scrapes and bruises.

Their wings flap once, and then they shift them away.

“Are you… a maintenance worker?” she asks, as if skeptical of her own assessment.

“Sometimes,” Uthvir replies. “Can you stand?”

“I think so,” she says, shakily.

Lowering her to her feet paints that as unbridled optimism, though, as her legs almost immediately give out. She hisses in pain, and lets go of the turtle; which hisses, in turn, at Uthvir, until she clamps another hand around the thing’s mouth.

Uthvir catches her before she can go crashing to the floor.

“Ow,” she says. “Ow, ow, ow.”

“What hurts?” they wonder.

“Ankle,” she immediately says. “Also everything. But I think the ankle is the real problem, right now.”

“Did you break any ribs?” the ask.

She takes a moment, as if trying to sort through all her various aches and pains.

“Maybe?” she suggests.

Uthvir scoops her back up, angry turtle and all, and takes a moment to assess the tunnel they are in. They do not know this one, though really, a lot of them look the same. But it was directly beneath the last, so they think they know where it is on the map. One of the gateways to Dirthamen’s estate should not be too far; the servants there will likely be willing to help.

“I know a little healing magic,” they say. “Let me see…”

After a moment’s consideration, they carry her further down the tunnel, until they discover a small bench at one of the bends. Settling her onto it, they take a solid look at her legs. One of her ankles is, indeed, swollen, and she has enough bruises to convince them that she probably has a few fractured bones, too. She is being admirably brave-faced about it all, even though she looks pale and pained.

“What happened?” they wonder, as they set about trying to fix what they can. Too much magic still would not be wise, but their healing spells are simplistic enough anyway.

“One of the tenders was separating the colour-swimmers into more tanks, so they would fight less. But they were trying to do it too quickly. This one slipped into the main fountain, and no one realized until they were doing a test to turn it on. I tried to catch it before it went down the pipe.”

Uthvir blinks at her.

“You risked your life for a turtle?” they ask.

“These are the only ones my lady has,” she replies. “If one dies, she will have whoever is responsible flogged, at the very least. Besides, I did not _mean_ to go down the pipe with it. I slipped.” This last part is gritted out through pained teeth.

The turtle tries to bite Uthvir again. They move back a bit, glaring, until its intrepid rescuer gives it a discouraging tap on the nose.

“Well, it does seem to like _you_ , at least,” they observe.

The servant of Ghilan’nain frowns down at it.

“It should be docile to anyone wearing vallaslin,” she says. “My lady originally bred them to seek out Nameless ships and attack their fishermen.”

“Charming,” Uthvir says. “Perhaps it simply dislikes my personality, then.”

The waterlogged elf squints at them a little. But they are, by all appearances, wearing vallaslin. After a moment she gives it up, though that might be the pain, too. She hisses a bit as Uthvir fixes her ankle as best they can, and then soothes over some of the worst of the bruises. They check her ribs, and sure enough, they are cracked. But not badly, it seems. A mending spell has her breathing a little more easily.

“My name is Aili,” she offers, staring at them as the healing spells cast blue light across them both.

“And I am called Uthvir,” they reply, with a smile.

“Thank you. For, you know. Rescuing me.”

“I just happened to be around,” they say. She really is an astoundingly pretty one, they think. Her eyes are violet, and her features are delicate; even when she is grimacing and scrunching and twisting them with utter abandon, to express her discomfort and displeasure.

Uthvir quite likes the expressiveness most of all, they think.

Hmm.

“Well, if there is one thing I know, it is that the sewers are no place for beautiful women and mutated turtles. Shall we get you back into the sunlight?” they suggest.

“Ugh. Yes, please,” Aili agrees.

Should be simple enough, Uthvir thinks.

Reaching out, they help her stand, and set off.


	2. The Glass Halla

_Uthvir immediately expends their remaining resources on figurines, much to the artist’s obvious shock. But the woman recovers quickly, and hurries to place their purchases in cushioned boxes that will safeguard their delicate parts._

_“Do you take commissions, or do you only have set models to work by?” Uthvir wonders._

_“I take commissions, yes!” the artisan hastily assures them._

_“You have nearly everything. But I have an acquaintance with particular fondness for halla,” they explain._

-Feynite

~

Arlathan might be considered the glittering jewel of the empire to most, and, in fact, depending on who you asked, that description might be a vast understatement of its wondrous beauties. Nearly an insult, really. Because even someone living in the miles of gray blockades, with little color and no gardens, is bound to find scraps of loveliness lurking somewhere if they are willing to sit there a squint at it long enough.

Aili usually doesn’t usually have to try that hard.

She has found that a change of perspective can do wonders for places that seem devoid of light and beauty. People, too. And the view of the lower city from the rooftops is quite transformative.

In the daylight, it is a great pale maze with bursts of color peeking out from half closed windows and people bustling their way to various destinations, thrumming and lively. Buzzing with laughter and crying and other snippets of normal people eking out a livelihood on whatever scraps the higher ranking followers have left for them. At night, it is a huge coiling beast, a dark clenching heart shot through with hundreds of narrow twisting alleyways that shine like veins of light. Thousands of tiny windows blinking and sputtering out of the blackness like a field of stars.

On the good days, she can see a dozen reasons why living in amidst the grandeur of the city is a privilege, even for the underprivileged.

Today is not a good day, though.

In point of fact, it has been a rotten few weeks, all things considered. Tempers have been on edge around Ghilan’nain’s Arlathan estate. Two very large, very costly projects have had to be abandoned because they had been deemed unfeasible, which had put their lady in a foul enough disposition that everyone else had been scurrying and tripping over themselves to please her. Their clever mistress is not so harsh with her servants as some of the other great leaders, but she is still not one to cross if one can help it. And Ghilan’nain’s displeasure had naturally led to a rather vicious quarrel with her lovely huntress, which meant that punishments where being doled out at a much higher rate than normal, since their great lady was snapping at her favored attendants, and they in turn were passing her discontent down through the lower ranks as well.

Aili has managed to avoid the worst of it, though she has been on the receiving end of one or two rather vicious backhands, but it’s nothing she can’t handle.

A more troubling matter weighing on her mind is trouble with the chimeras. These were meant to be a fairly routine batch of sea monsters; a half dozen or so terrors of the deep to pull down unsuspecting ships manned by the nameless and crush them between long slippery coils of scale and sinew. Usually they would be bred closer to their intended destination, but Ghilan’nain prefers to oversee such creatures while they are still small, or at least have them close at hand. And they keep dying.

Aili was only in charge of feeding them and cleaning their tank, so in all likelihood, the blame for such a disaster will not be hefted onto her shoulders, but… She does not like it when they die. She does not like losing anything under her care. Even if they are sharp and spiny and monstrous, they _are_ babies. They are alive and wanting and capable of feeling pain. And even if the only care she was meant to give them involved tossing them increasing large numbers of fish and carefully patting the scales between the poisonous spines on their heads, it still feels like she could have done more for them. It still tastes like failure.

Then there is the business with her father.

In yet another stroke of genius, Ghilan’nain has been breeding beasts that are something of a cross between a wyvern and a hunting hound as a present for her wife. They are clever trackers and small enough that even Aili could easily lift one in her arms. Unfortunately, thus far they have proven to be extremely territorial, and trying to get them to work together as a pack has already resulted in several injuries to both elf and beast.

And few weeks ago, her father was one of those injuries.

Adhamh’s hands and arms had been riddled with bites and acid burns, and there had been a rather impressive set of claw marks set into his left leg. The healers had seen to him quickly enough however, and now he was safely at home slowly regaining the full use of his fingers with no worries about scars or permanent limping. Wounds such as these are not an infrequent occurrence in her family, though that doesn’t necessarily free her of distress when they happen, but it generally means that her concern over it is quelled fairly quickly, as long as everything goes well with the healing process.

The real issue is Nadashim, a mid-ranking follower of Ghilan’nain with a pale unpleasant face and a nasty temper. He had been in charge of the trackers when the latest fiasco happened, and had also quite probably been the cause of it, too preoccupied with telling other people how to do their work to mind the creature he was supposed to be moving to a different pen and letting it get too close to one of the other males. This is apparently not how the incident was reported to Ghilan’nain however, and since he was too preoccupied with being patched up by the healers to defend himself, Adhamh was the one Nadashim chose to cast blame onto. And, as soon as his wound have finished healing properly, her father will be punished accordingly.

Aili knows her father will try to reason with the man. She also knows it will be futile. Her mother will have retribution, but Ina’then is a patient sort, willing to wait decades before moving in for the killing blow.

She finds she is much less complacent than either of them.

Which is why she’s sitting out here on one of the rooftops in the less prestigious part of the merchant district, bare feet swinging in the open air as she whittles away at a piece of scrap wood and humming under her breath. Her little project is slowly forming into a stag, a get well present for her father. She knows he’d prefer a halla, but there are rules about that, and neither of them really need another excuse to get in trouble at the moment. She pauses in her work and sighs, brushing a thumb over the half-formed creature’s forehead wistfully; she wishes it could be a halla, too. Precious thing.

The sky above seems to echo her mood; dark rainclouds massing for a good clean storm. She is vengeful and morose my turns, aggravated by her lack of options, and ready to get a bit of her own back from any place she can land a blow. Sometimes it’s the only way to stay sane. A few scattered drops are already beginning to fall on her, even as the street below remains dry, the water skittering over the top of it to drizzle lightly into a few tight alleyways instead. She takes a deep satisfying breath of fresh water and looming ozone. Perfect.

It took her four days to wheedle out which tailor Nadashim prefers to requisition for his clothing, the proprietor is a steady, good natured sort, easily bullied and, she has found, easily charmed by an earnest low ranking worker trying to make ends meet.

The mid-ranking wrangler had gotten his clothes quite thoroughly shredded in the same debacle that mangled her father, and naturally he had applied for permission to replace them. His request had, of course, been granted, and after an hour of harassing the poor craftsman, and nearly two weeks of terrorizing them via correspondence, he will be coming to fetch his order. And walk away with a little more than he’d bargained for, if she has anything to say about it.

Aili smiles down at the crude wooden deer in her hands as she continues to work, her expression eager and a bit devious, keeping an eye out for her intended prey. It shouldn’t be log now.

She ends up startling quite badly when a flurry of golden brown feathers sweeps into her periphery, and a large hawk drops from somewhere above her to land at her side. She squawks in alarm, the hand holding the knife slipping suddenly to slice at her own thumb, sending the little deer tumbling into the street below. She curses and shoves her injured finger into her mouth, turning to ply the intruder with a rather sour look.

“I was looking for you,” the hawk says with Uthvir’s voice, too preoccupied with trying to find a stable perch among the uneven tiles on the roof to note her expression.

“Well, you found me,” she informs them, not quite capable of keeping a trace of annoyance out of her voice.

She likes Uthvir, really. She imagines that it’s hard _not_ to like someone who introduces themselves to you by saving your life, even if they also somehow get you involved with a very quiet rebellion and several of the most dangerous people in the Empire. Not that she’s complaining about that either; she’s been living on the bottom rung long enough to know just how badly some things need to change. Still, they could use a better sense of timing. She sighs.

“Did you need me for another job? I thought that was why we had those drop points set up; so no one had to go traipsing about the city looking for each other?” 

“No job, in fact,” they tell her blithely, shifting carefully back into an elf and grinning at her, “I wanted to- …Did you cut yourself?”

“That’s what happens when you’re wielding a blade and someone drops out of the sky to surprise you,” Aili says somewhat wearily, lips curling into a faint smirk. A whisper and a wave of her hand, and the cut is gone. “No harm done, though.”

“Sorry,” Uthvir winces. “What were you doing waving a knife around on a rooftop anyway?”

“I was…making something for my father,” she hedges. Uthvir can be playful, even mischievous when they set their mind to it, but she’s not sure what they’d make of her bid for a bit of petty revenge. She would like to think they’d support her, being a sneaky rebel and all, but she doesn’t want to run the risk of them going to the General and telling her that she’d resorted to something this childish. She wants to keep helping them.

“What were you making?” they ask, perking up slightly in obvious interest, which should come as no surprise, since they always seem to being tinkering away at something. Aili wonders if it is a natural compulsion, or if all of June’s people are meant to constantly fiddling with things.

“Nothing fancy,” she assures them, “just making a deer from a bit of scrap one of the woodcarvers didn’t want anymore.”

“Can I see it?” they wonder, scooting a little closer to her and glancing about for the object in question.

“I…dropped it,” Aili says with a trace of remorse, as though just remembering the poor little carving’s fate herself. She pulls her gaze away from them to peer pointedly down into the street below.

“I will get it back for you!” they declare, and before she can voice any sort of protest, there is another whirl of feathers as they flutter down from the roof.

“Uthvir, wait!” she calls out frantically as she realizes exactly where the trinket has landed. “Don’t stand-”

She leans forward, reaching out as though to pull them to safety, and one of her legs swings back, knocking her heel against the glyph she had made against the wall earlier this morning and activating the hidden one planted directly beneath Uthvir’s feet.

BAM!

There is a flash of pale golden light as Uthvir is enveloped in a cloud of lurid purple powder.

“…there,” Aili finishes with a sigh. She shifts into a little golden fox and leaps nimbly onto the roof next door, which is much lower than the first, and then hops down onto a pile of crates in a nearby alleyway before changing back into an elf and making her way over to the main street and her unintended victim. “Are you alright?”

“What _was_ that?” Uthvir sputters in surprise, trying to rub the dust from their face with little success. 

“A…different sort of present for my father,” she says wryly.

They arch a brow at her, or at least, she thinks that is what they’re doing. Their face is so thoroughly violet, that it is a bit hard to tell.

Uthvir is very pretty, a fact they seem fairly well aware of, in their typical outfits of bright coppers and soft oranges, as though they constantly want to be wearing a sunrise. In fact, all of the General’s people are really sort of stunning, as though it is some sort of prerequisite for joining the revolution. Which begs the question of how _she_ got mixed up with all of them, but she supposes that is besides the point. Her consistently gorgeous friend and all of the fine clothes they have on are now an absolute ruin of painfully bright purple, to the point where all she can make out of their facial features is a pair of brown eyes squinting at her in mild disbelief.

She tries very hard not to laugh.

“Would it make you feel any better if I assured you that the intended target definitely has it coming to him?” she asks, a few tremors of amusement shaking through her voice despite herself.

“Marginally,” Uthvir replies dryly. “Well, I suppose the thing to do would be to step into an alley and let the rain take care of things.”

“Only if you want to end up dappled like a horse,” Aili sniggers, catching their wrist to halt them. “It’s a water-activated dye for clothing, but it works pretty well on just about anything. Take one step out in the rain and you’ll be the same color as a fresh bruise for at least a month.”

“You could at least _pretend_ that you did not find my plight entertaining,” Uthvir informs her, though she’s fairly sure their own expression is leaning more towards mirth than anything else.

“I _am_ trying to,” she promises with a laugh, not sounding especially sincere. She pulls them over into a corner of the street where they aren’t likely to get rained on or gawked at by other passersby. “Wait here a moment.”

After a few minutes of rummaging around by a stack of crates behind the tailor’s shop, she returns with a rag in one hand and a jar full of something creamy that smells vaguely of vinegar and lemons in the other.

“This ought to get it off you well enough,” Aili tells them with something of an apologetic grin, “or at least your skin and hair. Your outfit might be a loss.”

“The fact that you anticipated your spell catching someone other than your chosen prey does not speak well of your usual success rate,” Uthvir notes.

“Accidents have been known to happen,” she shrugs carelessly, “usually I’m the one getting caught in the blast zone, though.”

Aili pauses a few steps away from them, catching sight of her little wayward deer carving. She picks it up off the ground and frowns in dismay; the long fall has snapped one of its spindly legs from the rest of its body, and half of it is splattered with the same purple dye covering Uthvir. It won’t make much of a present now.

“That reminds me,” Uthvir says, glancing over at the broken creature in her hands. They fish around in a pouch on their hip for a moment before producing a velvet covered box no bigger than their palm and holding it out to her.

Aili pockets the damaged stag and trades the jar of stain remover for their offering with an expression of perplexity.

“What’s this?” she asks, turning the box over carefully in her hands, wondering if she is meant to convey some little treasure to another high ranking elf who has caught their eye.

“Open it,” they insist, an expectant smile creeping across their face as they begin wiping the cleaner over their hands and the bared skin of their arms.

She shoots them a curious glance, but does as she is bidden, slowly pulling open the lid to reveal… Oh. Her eyes go wide and her heart swells in her chest as she lets out an audible gasp of wonderment and delight.

A halla.

It is the tiniest statuette she has ever seen, delicate as a plume of smoke, and barely bigger than her thumbnail. Its dainty body seems to be made from a handful of little opals set into a frame of carefully twisted wire, pearly and luminous, even in the murky sunlight of the day. Blinking up at her like star shine.

“It’s beautiful,” she breathes, still a bit in awe.

“It is yours,” Uthvir tells her, sounding rather pleased with themselves.

“This probably costs more than the entire contents of my living quarters,” Aili snorts in disbelief, reaching out to lightly touch one of the halla’s minute twisting antlers. “Who in the world would be giving me something like this?”

“I would,” they assert smilingly, pouring more of the dye remover onto the rag and wiping at their neck.

“You…would?” she repeats, dumbfounded. “This is a gift…from you?” She blinks back down at the little figurine in its cushioned box. It is so very lovely. And quite frivolous. People don’t usually give her things that aren’t useful in some way. …People don’t usually giver her things _at all_. “What for?”

“No particular reason,” Uthivr shrugs, taking a step closer and grinning down at her, white teeth beaming from a still largely purple face. “You said you like halla, did you not? I thought it would make you happy.”

Her heartbeat skips, the blood rushing to her face as the air around her bursts with a bright flare of genuine surprise. This is the nicest gift anyone has ever given her. Granted, that is largely because most of her friends and family could never afford it, but it’s true just the same. She’s fairly certain she heard Squish say something a while ago about their interest regarding one of Mythal’s people, so this clearly isn’t a precursor to courtship, it isn’t her birthday, and they don’t seem to be expecting anything from her in return. Uthvir was just out somewhere, probably doing something important for the General, and… they thought of her, and wanted her to be happy.

She leans up a bit and presses a kiss to one glaringly violet cheek.

“What was that for?” Uthvir asks when she pulls away, reaching up to brush their fingers over the spot she just kissed, sounding a tad surprised themselves.

“Because it worked,” she flashes a dazzling grin, “Thank you.”

“Oh?” Uthvir replies, still seeming a bit astonished about something, and rather strangely excited, too. They hastily wipe the cloth covered in stain remover over their face before fixing her with a winning smile. “In that case, could I interest you in getting a bite to eat with me? Perhaps at Ess’ tavern?”

“I actually have to get back to my lady’s estate,” Aili says, slightly apologetic.

She notices that not all of the purple seems to have come off one of their cheeks as it should. Perhaps they had missed a spot? She opens her mouth to point it out to them, but then finds her jaw snapping shut an instant later, mortification dripping down into the pit of her stomach.

The mark is rather…kiss shaped.

“I-it’s nearly f-feeding time for the chimeras, and we’ve been experimenting with their diet, so I have to m-make sure I get the order right,” she stammers hastily, taking a few steps away from them and fighting down the urge to clamp her hand over her mouth. What if her lips are purple, too?

Aili curses internally. How could she forget that the dye sets once it comes into contact with water? And that mouths are inherently damp? Especially when said mouths are attached to the faces of elves who have been sitting out in the rain all morning?

“Oh,” Uthvir says, sounding oddly disappointed and apparently oblivious to the cause of her sudden distress. “Well, maybe some other time, then.”

“Y-yes,” Aili agrees with an awkward laugh, nodding her head at them rapidly. She offers them a quick wave of her hand in farewell and moves to find a way to clamber back up onto the rooftops.

Back in her fox shape, Aili lingers in the shadowy eaves of one of the shops, watching Uthvir work some of the cleaner into their hair before slowly beginning to walk back in the direction of June’s tower. They seem to be a bit more pensive than usual. Possibly because some low ranking nobody turned them purple and then assaulted them with her mouth. She sighs.

Hopefully they won’t walk past any mirrors on the way home. 


	3. Favor for a Favor

She stares down at the fruits of her labors. At the product of months of saving up credits. Weeks of rifling through whatever books she could gain access to for the sake of trying to find just the right enchantment. Long hours spent tucked into the corner of her little apartment closest to her lamp, trying to be delicate in her work despite her lack of sleep.

The scarf is hideous.

It was meant to be copper colored, but, of course, she is not allowed to purchase that particular shade, so it had ended up being a bright pale orange. …At first. Purchasing the finest woolen yarn from within the scope of vendors who will actually sell things to someone of her rank was a quite a strain on her scant savings to begin with, and then she kept messing up. Ruining whole sections as she attempted to weave her chosen spell into it. Tugging and yanking at the wrong loops until the yarn had been pilled and unseemly. She is fairly decent at sewing, and she thought knitting couldn’t be _too_ much harder. But apparently she was wrong.

She was barely a third of the way through the intended length for the scarf when she ran out of the first color. And, naturally, the shade she had gotten the first time was already out of fashion for the season, and therefore out of stock. Stupid fickle Elvhenan aesthetic. The second color was quiet noticeably darker, but she supposed she could maybe try to dye the first part to be more like the second. Until half of _that_ spool of yarn was ruined in a quarrel with one of the strange little failed animals her father always seems to be sneaking into her parents’ rooms. Then the third one had a tragic encounter with a bottle of ink, and by the time she got to the fourth color she didn’t even care all that much that it was more of a golden yellow than an orange, because she just wanted to be finished with the blasted thing.

The resulting knitwear is a huge monstrosity of warm colors jumbled together in no exact intervals, a strange, uneven pattern, and edges that curl up every so often for reasons she couldn’t figure out no matter how many times she attempted to remake them.

_Hideous._

She scrunches it up in disgust, burying her face in it to muffle a groan of anguished defeat. It’s soft, and likely warm enough, and she’s fairly sure the enchantment works correctly, but none of that matters if it doesn’t _look_ right. Everything in Elvhenan is about presentation first, and skill second, and the higher up in rank you go, the more that seems to be true. There is no way she can offer it as a gift without it seeming like some sort of backhanded insult.

Dejected, she gets up and goes to jam it into the deepest darkest corner of her dresser, she spent too much time and effort on it to just throw it away, and her eyes land on a little gleam of what looks like starlight sitting on the table by her bed. A tiny figurine in the shape of a halla. Easily the nicest thing she owns. And it was given to her for seemingly no particular reason at all.

She sighs. To be perfectly honest, it seems as though Uthvir is always giving her things. They apparently do that with everyone they’re friends with, but the difference is that their other friends don’t seem to struggle so much trying to reciprocate. They’ve insisted that it isn’t necessary, but she’s pretty sure they are just being polite. Every interaction amongst the higher ranking followers always seems to be some complicated ritual. A dance no one has taught her the steps to. 

Granted, that if it was anything like actual dancing, knowing the steps wouldn’t necessarily make her any better at performing them, but at least she would know what she is _supposed_ to do.

Uthvir keeps scooping her out of trouble, too. And while she has managed to return the favor more than once, they keep giving her things to ‘repay’ her for it nearly every time she does. Which means that she is probably meant to do the same, but all she’s been able to really afford is a drink or two from Ess’ tavern every now and then. It seems like a poor trade for her life.

Giving them the scarf was meant to even the score a little.

She scoffs. So much for that plan. 

She’ll just…have to think of something else. Something she is actually competent at. Like…singing?

She quickly scraps that idea, the items one can use to record the sound of one’s voice are _way_ beyond what her credit can afford. And trying to enchant something on her own would likely take her another few decades to work out. Still… maybe not entirely impossible. But would Uthvir even want some random bauble singing to them in her voice? It seems…oddly intimate. And not especially useful.

She sighs again, reaching out to lightly touch her tiny halla’s nose. She named it after a star. It’s hard to think of anything she could potentially cobble together for Uthvir that could measure up to this gift from them. She hopes they can at least tell that she values their friendship. Because she does. Uthvir is amazing, and sometimes, she gets the feeling they aren’t as convinced of that as they would like everyone to think they are. Though it is hard to fathom why that would be the case.

She really needs to find a way to pay them back. 

But the weeks turn into months, and no other suitable gift ideas see fit to present themselves to her. Everything seems to be either beyond her skill or her credit limit, and it gets to the point where she has to bite back a visceral bolt of shame just about every time they try to buy her something. Uthvir must take note of her discomfort, because after a while they seem to relent, and the usual flood of offerings from them seems to recede somewhat.

She feels both relieved and guilty about that. Uthvir likes giving things to people, she knows that, and it isn’t their fault that she is failing so miserably at being a good friend. They seem a little crestfallen about the whole thing for a while, but she is certain that once she finally manages to give them something in return, they will bounce back to their usual eagerness and charm, and perhaps the two of them can reach some sort of equilibrium about this constant gift exchanging business.

After all, it isn’t as though they are trying to _court_ her.

Eventually, they end up in the sewers together, which isn’t all that unusual, when Uthvir isn’t away on some scouting mission. The two of them work well together, they both know various hidden paths above and below the city, and both of them are relatively small. All the better for squeezing through dank narrow passages to clear out demons and renew the magics on old wards set by the General eons ago. She knows that the General comes through and cleans things out on her own sometimes, even though she could always ask for her help, as she never gets to leave the city. Perhaps she simply feels that Aili gets more underfoot than Uthvir does. She is not always certain that she is very useful as an agent. She doesn’t even own a proper set of armor.

Things go pear-shaped on this particular run, as they do, and somewhere in the midst of fighting demons and getting doused in a batch of water that smells something like a mix between a marsh and the south end of a cow, she steps backwards onto a long nail that has dislodged itself from somewhere above them. It pierces all the way up through the sole of her right foot, protruding grotesquely out the other side.

To her credit, she manages not to pass out immediately, though the sound of her agonized scream is enough to make Uthvir call back to her in apparent panic as it bounces shrilly off the slick walls of the sewer passage. Not one to surrender without a fight, she manages to at least take down the demon she had been dealing with, shoving her old worn dagger through its eye with a pained grunt, covering her hand with a dark ichor in the process. Another pleasant smell.

But then she is stumbling, weight shifting onto her injured foot, sending pain shooting up her leg like a jolt of electricity, sharp and sizzling. She hisses, trying to take stock of how many enemies there are left, they cannot let themselves get backed into the cave-in they found earlier, or they will have no way out at all. Her foot feels like it is on fire, and she can feel blood oozing out between her toes. She can already see Desire’s disapproving frown at the fact that she once again ended up down here without any sort of shoes on. She thinks she would welcome it at this point, if only for the fact that it would mean they had made it back up into the open air again.

Where is Uthvir? Are they hurt, too? Do they need help? She tries to turn around, searching, but her right leg does not seem to want to obey her. She staggers heavily, reaching out to steady herself against a smooth, damp wall. Her hand slips, her head knocks sharply against stone, and the world melts into blackness. 

She wakes to a curtain of autumn rainfall soaking through her clothes, shivering slightly as she slumps over the familiar shapes of Uthvir’s armor, her face smooshed somewhere in the vicinity of their neck. The Upper City is a field of golds and coppers and fiery crimsons this time of year, all of the higher ranking elves changing everything from their clothing, to their furniture, to the very shade of their eyes in order to match the trend of the season. But the Lower City is much as it ever is, grey and cramped, with only the smallest hints of color peeking out from behind tightly closed windows and doorways. There is no magic to keep the streets dry in this part of Arlathan. Although, with the pungent aroma the pair of them seem to be exuding, perhaps that is not such a bad thing.

“You smell like a garbage chute,” she informs them blearily, even as she tightens her arms around their shoulders, pressing her nose up somewhere behind their ear.

“You are not exactly the freshest rose in the garden yourself, Lovely,” Uthvir replies without the least trace of offence. Something shifts in the air around them that seems distinctly like relief, however, and she wonders just how long she has been unconscious.

“I feel more like an overripe cabbage than any sort of flower at the moment,” she admits. Her foot throbs with a dull sort of pain which is echoed faintly by a sizeable knot on one side of her head. “Slightly squashed.”

“And yet somehow still delectable,” Uthvir asserts breezily before clearing their throat and shifting their grip on her legs a bit. “How are you feeling?” 

“Cold and wet and woozy,” she mumbles against their skin with a sigh. “And grateful,” she adds a moment later. “How many times have you managed to save my life now? I’m beginning to lose count.”

“Almost as many times as you have saved mine,” they assure her. “Although there is really no need to tally them up as though we are keeping score. It is not a competition.”

“Sounds like someone is afraid of losing,” she says, snickering.

Uthvir sighs.

“How is your foot?”

“Hurts,” she grunts eloquently.

“We are almost back to where you live,” they tell her, “do you think you can walk, or do you need me to help you get up the stairs?”

“Dunno,” she answers, “but I guess there’s only one way to find out.”

When they get to her building, Uthvir slowly lowers her onto the ground. She hisses in pain as soon as she tries to place any real weight on her injured foot, but at least they managed to get the nail out and patch up the hole with healing magic, so she is not gushing blood everywhere anymore. She tries for a sort of limping hop in the direction of the door to her building, and Uthvir reaches out to take her arm, steadying her as she goes.

“I suppose if you are going to persist in getting injured while I am around, I should strive to become a better healer,” Uthvir notes casually, but there is definite concern in their expression as they help her hobble up to the doorway. “My heroism will seem a bit second rate if the fair maidens I rescue are all wincing in pain. It makes it harder to boast about my noble deeds.”

“Boast away,” Aili replies with a tired smile, patting their arm in consolation before pulling away from them to lean against the wall of her building. “I’ll back you up. You saved my life, I’m hardly about to complain about how you did it, or the level of healing I received in the process. Besides, if you upgrade your heroics, I probably won’t be able to afford them anymore.”

“I will make sure to offer you a discounted rate,” Uthvir assures her with a brief curling smile. Then their gaze moves back down to her foot, and they frown. “You really should let me get you some boots.”

“I told you I can get my own boots,” she says, her expression falling as she shifts her weight self-consciously, twisting her fingers together. 

“And yet, here you are months later, wounded and wet and just as barefoot as ever,” they point out.

“I doubt my purchasing footwear would have had any effect on the weather,” she rejoins just a bit tartly. “I don’t tell you how to spend your earnings.”

“You are right,” they agree hastily, holding up their hands in a gesture of defeat. “I did not mean to make you feel badly, I only wished to help.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, deflating just as quickly. “I know you mean well. And I promise, boots are the next thing I’ll save up for. It seems like the smart thing to do, since I keep ending up in the sewers. Now, if only there was some way to stop reeking of rotting vegetables...”

“I thought the rain would help,” Uthvir sighs wearily, casting a glance up at the wall of dark clouds above them, “but instead of getting rid of it, now it just seems to smell of…”

“ _Moldy_ rotting vegetables,” Aili supplies helpfully.

“Among other things,” Uthvir confirms with a slight grimace.

“You could always stay and use the public baths here again, if you like,” she offers.

Uthvir shakes their head.

“I have to go report back, I’m afraid. The General needs to know what happened so she can send someone else down there tomorrow. I’m not sure we cleaned out all of the demons, I was a bit preoccupied with getting you out of there.”

“Sorry,” she says with a wince. “Are you going to fly back?”

“The rain is a bit heavy for that,” they tell her. “So, it looks like another long walk for me. …And I do not even have a lovely unconscious woman slumped over me to keep me somewhat dry anymore as I make my weary way back to the tower.”

“Your back muscles will be glad of it, I’m sure,” she snorts, “and, if nothing else, the air will likely seem a little fresher.”

“You are very light to carry,” they assert, “…and warm.” Uthvir clears their throat and suddenly becomes very interested in adjusting bits of their armor. “At any rate, if you do not require my assistance getting up to your room, I should be going.”

“I…,” she pauses for a moment, uncertain, taking a long look at the sight of them standing cold and drenched out in the rain before finally reaching a decision, “Just…wait here a moment.”

Uthvir blinks at her.

“You want me to wait out here in the rain?” they ask, incredulous. “Can I not simply come inside with you?”

“You won’t melt!” she hisses, feeling the burn of embarrassment working its way up to her cheeks already. She shifts into her fox shape, hobbling on three paws will be faster than hopping on one foot. “I’ll be right back, I promise. I…want to give you something.” 

Uthvir looks confused, and perhaps a bit surprised, but they only nod and step closer to her building in order to lean against the wall and wait, vying for a bit of shelter from the downpour. Aili moves as quickly as her injures allow, scrambling up the long flights of stairs to her little room and shifting back into an elf to root around in her dresser for the ugly scarf she had abandoned so many months before. It is just as unseemly as she remembers, but the magic she wove into it still seems strong.

She keeps the scarf hidden behind her back when she finally makes it back down the stairs and onto the street, her face a bright telling red, still ashamed of how bad it looks. What if they refuse to try it on? They won’t understand why she is giving it to them now if she can’t get them to wear it.

“C-close your eyes,” Aili insists, fidgeting nervously under the scrutiny of their gaze. 

“Is this the part where you reveal that your gift is actually a kiss?” Uthvir wonders with a smirk, but they oblige her, a bit of color rising in their own features.

“That wouldn’t be much of a present,” she huffs in reply, stepping forward and carefully winding the soft material around their neck. “Though…this might not be either.”

Uthvir blinks down at the strange lumpy knitwear as she moves away, lifting up a hand to inspect the monstrosity she’s wrapped them in.

“It is very…” they begin, a strange expression forming on their face.

“It’s awful, I know,” she hurries to cut them off, anxiously knotting her fingers together. “I understand completely if you want to get rid of it later. I just… It’s raining, and the spell I used for it is supposed to…um.”

“I was going to say, _warm_ ,” Uthvir informs her with a soft smile. A sudden realization seems to strike them a moment later, and they glance upward, before laughing in pleased sounding surprise. “It keeps the rain off!” 

“It…it’s supposed to work for snow, too,” she tells them with an uncertain grin, a bit of her discomfort easing at the sight of their genuine pleasure. “I thought…since you have to go out scouting in all sorts of weather, it might come in handy.”

Uthvir pulls her into a tight embrace, twirling her around a little for good measure before setting her back down, ever mindful of her injured foot.

“It is wonderful,” they declare, beaming.

“It…isn’t very pretty,” she fumbles, her blush creeping back across her face, though for a slightly different reason, this time. “I kept messing up. And the colors…”

“It is unique,” Uthvir insists. “No one else will have one like it. And I like the colors; it is like a sunset! Who can say, perhaps my scarf will start a new trend among the upper ranks?”

“You are ridiculous,” Aili tells them, laughing despite herself, “but I’m glad you like it.”

“Very much, thank you,” they assure her, still grinning from ear to ear. “…Of course, you realize that now I absolutely _have_ to buy you a pair of boots.”

“What- no!” she sputters helplessly. “That wasn’t why I- This was supposed to be a gift to thank _you!_ ”

“I know,” they respond, completely unfazed, “but I want to.”

“You are impossible,” she grouses, not really sounding all that upset.

“That was not a refusal,” Uthvir points out happily as they begin moving back up the street in the direction of June’s tower. “I will come by in a few days, when your foot is feeling better, and we can go shopping!”

“ _Only_ for boots!” she calls after them. Her only reply is a jaunty wave that leads her to believe that the set excursion is going to be a long day of trying to stop Uthvir and possibly Squish from piling her with all sorts of clothes and accessories she can neither afford nor actually wear most places. She heaves a sigh, wondering why they bother…but a little touched at the gesture all the same.

Maybe not _everyone_ is so caught up in appearances.


	4. Unrequited

Uthvir finds the box in one of the tower junk piles, on a scrounging effort that is born as much from boredom as anything else. It is a massive crate, nearly too heavy for them to lift, and it is _full_ of beads. Beautiful, transparent, crystal beads that were, apparently, intended for use as components in some art commission that June scrapped halfway through completion. They are beautiful, and flawless, and designed to hold magic.

They are so excited.

They haul the entire crate off to their rooms in the barracks, with Haninan’s help for half of the way. Careful not to handle it too clumsily; some of the beads have already broken, after all. It takes them some time to sort through the pile. Pulling away the shattered ones, and segmenting out some sort of ‘artfully’ shattered ones that could still hold spells and be made into something. The next morning they rush out and spend a good amount of credits on spools of silvery thread, and for months, every time they are bored or have a spare moment, they spend it enchanting the beads and stringing them onto various necklaces and bracelets.

They do not _only_ use the beads, of course. They find out baubles, to even things out. The first one they deem acceptable is a necklace of shifting fire-shapes, that they give to Desire. She smiles, and seems quite charmed with it. Uthvir is encouraged.

They make for Haninan, as a ‘thank you’ for helping to carry the beads. Mossy and green, with little shifting shapes stuck in each one. They make one for the General, because she likes gifts. Blue, like the sea, with tiny rolling waves that shift and change.

The enchantments do not last for more than a year, but that is alright, come to it. Desire has Uthvir renew hers, and the General says she likes it just as much when it is not moving, and Haninan fixes his own with scarcely an issue. Uthvir experiments with effects and designs. They destroy some more beads in the process, but they also discover some very interesting things. It is a good way to kill time, and when they figure out how to little falling feathers inside of one, they know just who to give it to.

They put a necklace together. Peacock-coloured beads that seem like the quiet rustling of bird feathers. Three to the necklace, because they are quite large, and then smaller bits in between. They do their best to make the entire piece look fashionable and sophisticated, before sealing it into an expensive silver box, and sending it to Mythal’s palace.

It comes back, unopened.

Uthvir’s heart sinks, when they find the package among their missives. There is no note. Thenvunin had at least accepted the other gifts, even if he had gave no intention of approval or disdain either way. But this is… definitive. He is not interested. The man who has caught Uthvir’s eye has finally sent a firm ‘no’, and they suppose they cannot blame him.

He has good instincts, perhaps.

Still. They lose some of their enthusiasm, after that. The unopened package sits on their desk, until they put it away in a drawer, but even then, it seems to stick in their mind. They find themselves wondering if a different design, different pattern, different _theme_ would have worked, until they remind themselves that it does not matter; he did not open it. The problem was not the gift. It was Uthvir.

It is always Uthvir.

They next time they pull out the beads, they fill some of them with sand. Sand a soft, singular strand of starlight, that twists and weaves inside of its tiny prison. The end result is beautiful, and it makes them feel sick to their stomach, before they pick them all up and smash them open. Letting out the light, and grinding the beads into dust.

It is melodramatic of them, they know. But they take a string of the smaller ones, clear and empty, and fill them with nothing. Just a necklace of clear, empty beads, that they throw around their neck, and wear under their shirt. It does not draw much attention. Subtle jewellery pieces are fairly popular, these days, and transparency is going through a trend in the upper-ranks. For a mid-ranking cartographer, a string of hollow beads seems fairly well like a respectable effort to match trend.

They focus on their missions. Another trip into Falon’Din’s territory, and then a second one to spy on some of Dirthamen’s workers in the undercity. They take Aili along for that one. It is a simple enough mission outline, so they do not worry that there will be too much fighting, and she knows some of the escape routes and paths in the lower districts that Uthvir is only theoretically aware of.

It is easy, being with Aili. Aili is soft and golden and shrewd and energetic, even if she thoroughly ignored their attempts at courting her almost as much as Thenvunin did. At least she speaks to them, though, and wants to be their friend regardless. They do well on the mission. It is, for once, a clean run. No life-threatening disasters, no terrible mishaps. The only hiccup is when they find their expect route for withdrawal is block, and then they just end up taking an auxiliary one that adds another half an hour to the whole affair.

It is hot in the lower streets, where the magical run-off can heat up some of the grey districts sporadically. Uthvir strips off their overcoat, once they are safely away, and AIli pauses to re-tie her hair, which has come loose and started sticking to the sides of her face. She glances at them, and then her eyes dart down to their collarbone.

“Oh!” she says. “That is new. Did you make it?”

Uthvir takes a moment to realize what she is referring to, before they note that their beads are visible.

They shrug.

“Yes,” they say. “Nothing fancy, really.”

“Those are spellcraft beads,” Aili recognizes. “Sometimes Ghilan’nain uses bigger ones to hold ingredients and things. But you can get them to activate just with sound sometimes, too.”

Uthvir blinks, and watches – baffled – as Aili lifts up their necklace and starts to hum.

“I do not think they are that kind…” they begin, but then stop.

The clear, hollow beads turn between Aili’s fingers, and after a few moments, they change. Not _dramatically._ No whirling landscapes or frozen lakesides or fiery hearths appear in their depths. No leaves, no feathers. But they glow, softly. An odd, very faint blue, that makes them think of clear skies; and then a gentle pink, like a delicate blush. Different beads taking on different shades, until Aili stops, and lets them fall back down to Uthvir’s collar.

They are warm.

“See?” she asks, and looks at their face.

Some of their shock must show, because she hesitates.

“Um. I guess I should have asked before I changed your jewellery around, though. Sorry. It should wear off if you put them someplace dark and quiet for an evening,” she says.

Uthvir swallows.

“How do I get it to stay?” they ask, instead.

She grins, and then shrugs.

“They should be fine if you just keep wearing them. Ambient light and noise and will keep them activated,” she reasons. “And touching them every now and again.”

They reach a hand up, and pat at the beads. There was something in them all along. Maybe not as good as in everyone else, but still. Something. They look over at where Aili is grinning, pleased with her intervention, and reach out. Pulling her into their arms and sweeping her up, spinning her for good measure as she lets out a squawk of surprise. They permit themselves a moment of indulgence, to sneak a kiss against her temple, before carefully setting her back down.

“Thank you,” they say.

Aili’s cheeks flush, and she raises a hand to check her hair tie.

“Anytime,” she says.


	5. So Close

The winter festival is in full swing in the pleasure district of Arlathan, huge towering sculptures carved from ice, of dragons, and great leaping harts, and several sprays of exotic flowers, all reflecting and refracting a million twirling motes of multi-colored lights. A gentle snow drifts down onto the celebrations from above, collecting along the rooftops, and in the hair and clothing of anyone who stands still too long. Not _real_ snow, of course, as that would have been rather uncomfortable for some of the more…aesthetically minded party-goers, as well as the majority of the district’s workers, as they have on jewels and a few well-placed furs, and little else. 

Aili is dressed a bit more warmly herself, as most of the magic controlling the city’s weather is focused on the places where the higher-ranking followers spend their time. The Lower City still gets hit with a lot of the magical runoff, though, so even her camped little living quarters are not as cold as they might be if she had been assigned somewhere a bit more provincial. Still cool enough to warrant clothing that covers most of her body, however.

Her outfit is still relatively plain by Arlathan standards, in part because she is not permitted to wear anything especially flashy, but she put a little more effort into her appearance than she usually tends to. A billowy shirt in pale blues under a creamy white tunic edged with touches of embroidered leaves and flowers in light gray. She managed to force her hair into something a bit more elegant than a ponytail, too, though a fair few of her curls are already making an escape from it. To top it all off, she has a pair of thin silvery bracelets, cheap, but still sparkly from far enough away, a new pair of footwraps, and… the least worn pair of her work pants.

Well…she tried.

It doesn’t particularly matter what she’s wearing anyway, since she is not actually part of the festivities. There had been something of a last minute rush for a few of the preparations, and they had called in a few dozen extra hands from the Lower City to come help move things around to create the ideal space that the event coordinators had envisioned. And, as a reward for her service, she was given permission to witness the fruits of their labors. So long as she keeps out of the way.

And there is no better seat for unnoticed observation than the rooftops.

Aili swings her feet out over the edge of the roof, humming along to the music wafting through the air as she sips and nibbles at some food passed stealthily into her hands by some acquaintances working as servers for this event. It’s a little nicer than what is likely to be on the tables in the Lower City this evening, and it is not likely to be missed. Being friendly and reliable has its perks every now and then.

She does not subscribe to all the frippery and ridiculous trends of the upper class, but she can at least concede that they are…pretty. Sometimes. When they aren’t actively trying to make other people miserable. Which is rare.

They look nice enough right now, though. From a distance. Like little dancing figurines in the window of some fancy toy store, covered with glittering jewels. There is a general sense of excitement and frivolity permeating the air as well, and that is…almost strangely uplifting.

Certainly a change from crawling through sewers and trying to stop the Great Leaders of Elvhenan from slaughtering people and spirits out of hand as often as possible. Although, that comes with its own brand of satisfaction. But it is good to simply kick back and enjoy things every now and then.

Aili watches a play for a while, a comedy laced with what she suspects is off-color, lewd humor, but she’s never been the best at picking up on that sort of thing, so it misses the mark with her more often than not. Other people watching seem to find it funny though, and it is good to see people enjoying themselves in a relatively harmless way. Maybe she should ask Uthvir or Desire about why everyone started laughing when one of the performers began noisily eating a peach, though. She likes eating fruit, and if someone has decided that publicly eating an apple is unseemly, she would rather hear it from a friendly source.

Once she has finished her food, she gets up from her perch and moves down to a different part of the roof to watch a large group of couples dancing in an open courtyard outside of one of the pleasure houses.

She has always secretly wished she was better at dancing. Just a bit. Not that she has ever gotten much of a chance at it, but…it’s pretty. The graceful glide of synchronized movements in time with the music. The twirls of hair and cloth. Brief touches of hands and linking arms. Reaching out and pulling close. Spinning away and then back again.

There is also the romantic element to consider, of course, but that is something she has even less experience with than the actual footwork. She thinks it might be nice, though. To be held in someone’s arms for a moment and feel…something. Maybe.

The music changes to a different song, and the couples part ways for a moment, some leaving, others joining in as a new dance begins. This one has fairly simple steps, and she’s tried her hand at it a few times. With…varying degrees of success. And a lot of tripping.

But there is no one up here to mock her flailing limbs, or to get hit or kicked by them either, so there is no reason why she shouldn’t join in the fun if she wants to.

Aili moves a little farther back from the edge, just to be safe, takes a deep calming breath, and begins to mimic the movements of the people dancing on the streets below. She feels a little silly dong it alone, but a touch of whimsy never hurt anyone. She tries to think of it more like the exercises her mother does every morning to keep herself limber, but perhaps with a bit more twirling. Focus only on your body, on precise, controlled steps and gestures. Imagine that you are water. That you flow with purpose a grace.

She thinks she is doing a pretty good job, all things considered.

Until a large hawk swoops in from nowhere and lands directly in front of her on the roof.

Aili yelps in alarm, hastily backpedaling so as not careen into the new arrival, windmilling her arms for a moment before ultimately landing flat on her backside with a curse.

“Uthvir!” she complains frowningly, “How many times are you going to divebomb me like this without any warning?”

“Sorry!” they exclaim hastily, shifting back into the shape of an elf and offering her a hand up, “I’m sorry. I was on my way to meet up with Squish, and I saw you on the roof and I thought…you looked like you could use some company. Or perhaps a partner?”

“Why didn’t you and Squish just come together?” she wonders, taking their proffered hand and getting back on her feet, pausing for a moment to wipe a bit of dirt from her pants.

“We had an assignment from the General to take care of while everyone was occupying themselves with the festival,” they explain with a quirk of their lips, “But only one of us needed to turn in a report to Haninan afterwards. So, I sent Squish on ahead to enjoy herself while I dealt with some of the more mundane parts of our usual duties. She deserves to have some fun.” 

“You deserve a break, too,” she insists, “I think we all do, given how many times we’ve ended up down in the sewers this year. The smell alone should earn us some sort of guaranteed day off at least once every six months or so.”

“The perils of joining our particular sort of organization, I’m afraid,” Uthvir says with a shrug, still grinning. “I may have arrived late to the party, but I assure you that still have every intention of having a good time.”

“It looks like a lot of fun,” Aili admits with a smile of her own, turning her gaze back to the scene of dancing figures and floating lights. 

“It has its charms, I suppose,” Uthvir concedes, “As well as a few…less than tasteful attributes. …I admit, I assumed you would be at the festival in the Lower City, given your usual predilections.”

“I like watching the processions sometimes,” Aili replies with a smirk, folding her arms over her chest, “I’m not so morose that I can’t enjoy something pretty every now and again. Besides, I have every intention of joining the celebrations with my social peers eventually. I was just here for a job of my own, and I stuck around for the food and a bit of fancy ambiance.” 

“So, you were not looking for anyone in particular out in the crowds, then?” Uthvir wonders, their smile turning just a bit sly.

“Like who?” Aili asks, confused, “You mean the General? Was I supposed to be keeping an eye out for her? Is she in trouble or-”

“No, no, nothing like that,” they sigh, cutting her off. They stare at her for a minute, and she thinks there is something a bit rueful hanging in the air around them, but it slips away before she can be completely certain.

“You look nice,” Uthvir offers a moment later, making her blink in surprise. 

“Thanks,” she manages to reply, feeling the heat rising in her face, plucking self-consciously at the sleeves of her shirt, “You…um. You do, too. Not that you don’t usually or anything. Because you do. Look nice, I mean. All the time.”

She sort of wishes she could figure out how to compliment someone without shoving her entire foot into her mouth.

Uthvir does not seem particularly put off by her awkwardness, though. In fact, if she had to guess, she would say they look a little pleased. Maybe. But they do look nice, even if she is not especially good at articulating it. Beautiful, really. Their outfit is a dark midnight blue with accents in bronze and copper, a pattern of pale orange snowflakes growing more opaque as they drift down towards the hem, with a sash of burnished gold about their waist.

“I am glad you approve,” they tell her smilingly, hesitating for a moment before taking a step closer to her, “Did you want to dance?”

“W-what?” Aili blurts, startled.

“You were dancing before, were you not?” Uthvir reminds her, arching a brow and extending a hand out to her, “It looked as though the one you were preforming was intended for at least two people, though, so I thought I would volunteer.”

“Oh. N-no, but I-” she stammers, her cheeks flushing again, eyes darting about in embarrassment, “I’m not… I’m not a good choice, for that sort of thing. I just mess everything up.”

“You seemed to be doing the steps well enough, from what I could see,” Uthvir informs her, frowning slightly and drawing their hand back a little.

“That’s different!” Aili exclaims, “That was because… Because I was doing it alone, and I didn’t think anyone was watching and… And I… Look, there have been…incidents, okay? Bruised toes and black eyes. I’m a menace.”

“Perhaps you simply have not found the right partner?” they suggest softly, taking another step forward and reaching out for her hand. Their fingers close around her palm and they meet her gaze directly, “Are you opposed to dancing with me?”

Aili shakes her head dumbly, gulping thickly and moving a step or two closer to them, raising her free hand to their shoulder and feeling her ears burn as their other hand settles on her waist.

“I-I…don’t know the dance that goes to this song,” she realizes after a moment, glancing up at them with an air of mild panic. Apology and mortification suffusing the air around her to the point where she cannot even make out Uthvir’s emotions with any kind of clarity.

“We can just try the one you were doing earlier?” Uthvir suggests calmly, gently guiding her into the first few steps. She complies without comment, though still clearly nervous. But when called upon to turn away from them and then spin back a moment later, she manages to solidly jam her elbow into their gut. They let out a pained grunt and she all but leaps away from them.

“I’m so sorry!” she exclaims miserably, “I told you, I’m no good at this sort of thing. Maybe we should just-”

“It’s fine, really,” Uthvir wheezes, grasping for her hand again and taking a second to breathe before pulling her back, “Just relax. There is no need for such anxiety. No one is up here except you and I, and… Dancing is meant to be fun, yes?”

“R-right,” she mumbles, taking a deep breath and trying to calm her nerves.

Uthvir guides her back into the steps of their dance, and after a minute or two, they begin humming the song that had been playing earlier when she was preforming them alone. Aili blinks up at them, surprised, but then she smiles slowly, and adds her voice to their own, allowing herself to focus more on the tune than the movements of her feet. She is still not quite equal to the picture of grace and beauty painted by the couples in the streets below perhaps, but it is something.

The necklace of clear beads settled against Uthvir’s collarbones begins to glow softly, activated by the sound of their voices, illuminating the features of their face more clearly in the starlight. There is a bit of snow accumulating in their hair, and some of the shimmering lights from below catch along the edges of their finery, making them shine here and there. They grin down at her, and she becomes startlingly aware of the proximity of their bodies. The warmth of their hand in hers, pressing against her lower back, gliding down the length of her arm.

Her heart thunders roughly in her ears. Her steps falter. They draw her closer on instinct, to prevent her from falling, and she makes the mistake of looking them in the eye. Neither of them are humming anymore, too caught up in the strange moment they seem to have found themselves in. Even the music drifting up from the celebrations below seems to fade away, until the only thing in the air between them seems to be gently drifting snowflakes and the sound of their breaths mingling together.

Uthvir is staring at her.

It is not an expression that seems to fit into any specific category that she has a decent label for. There is an undeniable intensity to it, and yet…a distinct softness, too. Their emotions are withdrawn from the air around them, but it feels as though they are simmering below the surface. Ready to drown her in a flood of…something. Whatever it is, she finds herself inexplicably pinioned by it. 

They lift one of their hands up, as though to touch her cheek. And she wonders distantly if there is something on her face. If that is truly what this situation is all about, and she is just fumbling through things like she always does. She opens her mouth slightly to voice the question aloud, even as Uthvir’s face dips unaccountably closer to her own.

“Uthvir!” chirps the delighted voice of a glowing orb of light as it darts into their field of vision, “I knew I could find you!”

“…Hello, Luck,” Uthvir sighs in what seems to be mild exasperation as Aili stumbles a half step away. The spell of the moment shattered as confusion and mild embarrassment color the air around her.

What just happened here?

“I told you I could find them, Beauty!” Luck exclaims triumphantly as a second little spirit comes drifting up to join the first, “Desire was looking for you, but you did not come. So, I said that I would find you. And I did!”

“We were supposed to stay together,” Beauty huffs.

“No one was going to pay attention to a few extra little spirits with all those other lights floating around,” Luck insists confidently.

“You couldn’t know that for sure,” Aili admonishes, furrowing her brow at them.

“Then I guess we just got lucky!” the spirit laughs, completely unrepentant.

“Well, at least that makes one of us,” Uthvir mutters under their breath.

Aili shoots them an odd look. Uthvir shrugs noncommittally. Luck swirls about them in excitement while Beauty floats along placidly behind them surveying the scene before them.

“Did we interrupt something good?” Beauty wonders, pausing to hover in front of Aili for a moment, “There is a strange air of loveliness lingering in the Dreaming around here.”

“It’s probably rising up from the festival,” Aili reasons, “Uthvir and I were just dancing. I mean, it was very nice, but I’m not sure it would qualify as beautiful. I’ve been told I flap my arms like a chicken.”

“I thought you did very well,” Uthvir offers, smiling faintly.

“Thanks,” she grins in reply, still a bit bashful about the whole thing, “I’m glad you survived with only some mild bruising to your ribs.”

“I…do not suppose I could interest you in a repeat performance?” Uthvir wonders, slightly hesitant.

“You want me to elbow you in the stomach again?” Aili laughs, “Squish is waiting for you, isn’t she?”

“I… Yes, of course,” they sigh, sounding strangely resigned. They move away from her, intent on shifting back into a hawk and gliding down into the streets below. Aili catches their wrist, and they turn back to her in surprise.

“T-thank you,” she sputters, not quite meeting their eye, “For dancing with me even though I mauled you.”

Uthvir catches up her hand, bringing it to their lips and offering her a wink in reply.

“Any time.” 


	6. Matching

It is either very later or very early, depending who you feel like asking, and Aili and her rebellious cohorts are the only ones left in Ess’ tavern. She had sewer duty again today, and it is honestly beginning to feel like the only thing she is good for. Although, she _is_ very small, and she hasn’t had much in the way of combat training, so perhaps that is a fair assessment. Still, there are days when even crawling through muck and smelling like garbage ends up feeling like landing a significant blow against the Oppressive Upper Classes, and this just so happens to be one of them.

Aili had been paired with Haninan this time, since his special talent at reworking spellwork was vital to the task at hand, and they had been sent deep into the tunnels underneath Falon’Din’s estate. The initial plan had been to see if they could get one of the evanuris’ more obscene monuments to explode, but Haninan had gotten stuck. Too big, even after shifting his shape slightly, and concerned that using any more magic might trigger a cave- in.

So, Aili had carried on alone. In the dark and the muck. It had taken nearly four hours all together, but she had made it to the proper junction beneath the evanruis’ hideous décor. Haninan had been able to talk her through some of the trickier bits of changing the glyphs that funneled magic to the statue, with the help of the shell necklaces the General had lent them. They are very useful for speaking to people across fairly long distances, and also _very_ illegal, and Aili had been a bit worried about wearing one at first. But if Falon'Din caught her sneaking around under his estate, she suspects that a bit of jewelry would be the least of her troubles.

Falon'Din had recently taken a new ‘prize’ from the Lower City. A follower of Mythal, but one that Aili had worked with a few times doing odd jobs around the city. A former spirit of patience. Small and soft, with a wide smile and warm bright eyes. Their mistress had surrendered them readily enough, and the General had found out about the transfer too late to intervene.

The last time Aili had seen Patience, their eyes had not been so bright. They looked as though they could not even remember what a smile was, let alone how to form their features into one. Aili suspects that, despite their origins, Patience will not last long in Falon'Din’s service.

Which is why she volunteered to go on this mission. It would not save Patience, of course, but it helps with the frustration and the aimless sense of guilt. She will take back what she can from the Evanuris, even if it not what she would like to take from them. Even if it is less than an inch of ground, a moment in time, a single gasp of breath.

Aili rewrote the glyph. And then she carefully set a pair of small dwarven runestones along the outside of it. There were meant to be four, but the other two got left behind with Haninan. It proved to be enough, though.

The rumbling from above during her escape had been a _very_ satisfying sound. 

Reports seem to say that the statue had not so much exploded as it had seemed to just…collapse in on itself. And in the end, that might be for the best. Certainly, Falon'Din will want the hides of the construction team for the project, which is unfortunate, but at least there will be no alarms raised about hunting down a group of notorious troublemakers.

Aili finds herself the unexpected hero of the night. She’s exhausted and covered in scrapes and slime, but everyone keeps pulling her in for hugs and offering to buy her drinks. And…well…it seems like it would be awfully rude to turn them down.

They were all pretty rowdy earlier, in the heat of their general triumph and excitement, but things are beginning to calm down now. Squish, Dorian, and Haninan have all struck up a card game with a few other agents that she does not have the presence of mind to keep up with. Aili feels bubbly and warm, spread out across three different people’s laps on Ess’ one little couch in the back of the bar.

Her head seems to have ended up in Uthvir’s lap somehow or another, and she’s pretty sure they’ve been talking to her for the last ten minutes or so. She also seems to have misplaced her outer tunic. And one of her footwraps.

“Wut?” she asks eloquently, blinking up at them in confusion.

Uthvir sighs.

“I said that if you think you are going to fall asleep, you should let me take you home,” they say in a tone that make her think they have most likely said something similar at least two times before this. She doesn’t remember it though.

“S'fine,” Aili insists, “My room s'not far from ‘ere.”

“Which means that it would not be terribly inconvenient for me to take you back,” they point out, “And the next time you are on a mission with Haninan and he gets stuck like that, you should come get me. Or someone else who could help you instead.”

“All worked out okay, dinnit?” Aili giggles, wiggling in their lap a bit and swatting at their leg in playful chastisement, “You worry too much when yer drunk. Imma big girl. I can lace up my own trousers n'everythin’. I’m tough ‘n scary. Rawr!”

“ _I_ am not the one who is drunk here,” Uthvir huffs, but they cannot quite keep the amusement out of their voice, and perhaps a hint of something a bit warmer as well.

“There’s a few empty bottles of sun wine that say otherwise,” Aili snorts, “An’ yer cheeks are all rosy.”

She reaches up and pinches them lightly, still laughing to herself.

“Drunk looks nice on you, though,” she tells them fondly, “Everythin’ looks nice on you. S'not fair.”

Uthvir snorts, and their cheeks might get just the tiniest bit darker.

“I think you look rather enchanting yourself, ” they assure her, “But I am only a little tipsy, if anything. I believe I have a much greater tolerance than you do.”

“I look like a swamp creature who swam ashore to get sloshed on a dubious mix of cheap drinks,” she hiccups, “And why aren’t you drunk, then? Issa party! Be drunk with me!”

They shake their head at her, but obligingly reach over to the table for some bottle of lately-abandoned alcohol and take a long swig.

“Yessh!” she crows in delight, patting at their chest, “Now you can be like me! Together! Drinkin’ stuff and…an’ sneakin’. Unshtoppable. Tha’s sus. Big heroes an’ stuff.”

“It would not be very heroic of me to allow you to go home by yourself while you are drunk,” Uthvir informs her, “You would probably get mugged or something.”

“No one’s gonna rob me,” Aili laughs, “I don’t got nothin’ worth stealing.”

“Then let me help you simply to put my mind own at ease,” Uthvir requests, “Please.”

“Aw, yer such a good friend,” Aili beams at them, wrapping her arms about their middle and squeezing them a bit, “You might even be my best friend? If you wanna be. I wouldn’t mind. Even if you don’t get drunk with me at parties.”

Uthvir is silent for a moment. Pensive. They move on hand to her head, brushing the messy sweep of curls back from her face and coaxing her to roll over a little. At least enough to look her in the eye. She smiles up at them, and they seem to decide something.

They lean down a bit closer, not wanting to be overheard. Their gaze is intense. Their emotions held tight within them.

“To me, you are-”

But that is as far as they get before Aili grabs them by the face and more or less slams their foreheads together.

“We have matching vallaslin!” she exclaims excitedly. “Also, _ouch_ , that was a bad idea. But I never noticed before!”

“Matching… What?” Uthvir blinks, still a bit dizzy. “We don’t even serve the same evanuris.”

“No no no!” Aili rushes on, “I meant the _colors!_ We’ve both sorta got…warm bronze-coppery. Well…maybe not _exactly_ the same…”

She reaches up and taps the markings on their chin. Much softer this time.

“Close enough,” she decides happily, “It’s like we go together. Two of a kind! Birds of a feather! We should celebrate!”

“Is it really such good news to be comparable to me?” Uthvir wonders.

“Absolutely," Aili declares, “Because yer my favorite.”

And with that said, she promptly rolls off the side of the couch and wretches on the floor.


	7. The Boy in the Box

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beginning of the Baby Fenris AU!!! <3

Aili is coming to the end of what has proven to be a very long and trying day.

She climbs up out of one of the discreet entrances to the sewers in the Lower City, covered in bruises and slime, and drenched in foul-smelling water. Weary, down to the very marrow of her bones. But at least this section of the tunnels has been cleared of demons, and the new wards that the General had wanted laid down have be successfully put into place.

There is some satisfaction to be found in that; a sense of pride that does not fade even when she is met with a cold gust wind hurling a flurry of snowflakes directly into her face.

She wraps her arms around herself and shivers, rubbing at her sleeves with a touch of magic in an effort to dry the thin material of her shirt a little. It doesn’t help much. Things will be better as soon as she can change into a fox, and have a nice layer of fur to keep her warm.

But that will have to wait until she gets up onto the rooftops.

She hastily ducks into a nearby alleyway, it’s very late, but she would rather not run the risk of someone seeing her if she can possibly help it. This is mainly a warehouse district, so anyone else wandering around at this time of night probably wants to avoid being seen as much as she does, but she would rather be safe than sorry. There are a lot of wards laid out around the buildings to protect precious goods, but she knows where the merchants tend to set them, and they aren’t likely to be an issue once she is up on the roofs anyway. But she does have to get there first.

A few blocks down from where she started, she knows of a storehouse for various imported pottery and fresh clay that has an awning low enough for her to pull herself up from the street. She is more than two thirds of the way towards her intended destination, picking her way carefully over a few large crates that have already been divested of their previous cargo, when she is blinded by a sudden flash of light. Startled, her fingers lose their purchase, and she finds herself falling backwards, her elbow smashing painfully into the smooth stone of the street. After a low hiss of pain and several muttered curse words, she shifts into a fox and tucks herself into the shadows, hoping that the burst of magic was someone else in the vicinity setting off an alarm, and not something she has managed to trip herself.

For a minute or so, there is nothing but silence and snowfall.

And then she hears it; a thin, high keening sound, muffled by one of the crates. She might mistake it for a stray cat, or some other small lost house pet, that had somehow succeeded in trapping itself beneath a stack of boxes, but there is a palpable aura of grief permeating the air. And a thick, cloying fear, intense enough that she could almost swear she could taste it in the back of her throat.

Aili pads out of her hiding place on nimble paws, sniffing cautiously until she thinks she has located the box the noise is emanating from. There is a strange acrid smell lingering in the air, almost enough to scorch the inside of her delicate nose, but beneath that, there is a definite scent of…person.

Quickly and quietly as she can, she shifts back into the shape of an elf and begins to move the crates away from the one that seems to be occupied. Not as easy a task as she might have hoped, as it turns out. Although they are empty, the boxes themselves are large and sturdy, and not even the frequent exercise of lugging Uthvir out of danger has built up her upper body strength to the point where this is an easy task. And she was tired to begin with.

Still, she manages. Perhaps spurred on by adrenaline, or concern, or genuine empathy for the poor little creature trapped in the dark. She is fairly certain that there is really only one thing it could be, and it is doubtlessly going to cause her no small amount of trouble, but that doesn’t mean she has the heart to simply abandon it to its fate.

Sure enough, when Aili finally pulls the lid off the crate, she is met with a startled, hiccupping gasp, and a pair of wide green eyes. He is a bit hard to make out at first, a little smudge of olive skin and dark hair nestled in a pile of wood shavings. Long and lean, and without any sort of injury or defect that she can immediately discern; she wonders what in the world could have caused someone to abandon him out in the snow.

A baby, thrown away with the garbage.

For a moment, they both simply regard one another, the little boy’s gaze boring into her with an intensity that she does not tend to associate with babies, black brows furrowing in an expression of obvious misgiving. She did not think a child so young would be capable of suspicion, but perhaps, given the circumstances, it is not so strange. He cannot have learned much of love or trust if his caretakers were callous enough to dump him in the warehouse district. In the dark. And the cold.

A great swell of fury rises up in her. Surely, this was not his parents’ only option. There are plenty of elves who would have taken him in, even knowing the risks. He could have been left in the Upper City, were some high-ranking follower might have found him. He could have been left in a tavern somewhere, sheltered and warm. …They could have at least left him a _blanket_.

Unless…it was not their intention that he survive.

Aili shakes the thought away, as it is far too horrible to even imagine, before reaching into the crate to scoop the child up into the relative warmth and safety of her arms.

He makes a startled squawk at the sudden movement, visibly recoiling from her outstretched hands. The fear around him sharpens again, and she hastily pulls away. She frowns, puzzled. Uncertain if the child is afraid because she is a stranger, or if his treatment before now has been so terrible that he is actually petrified of being held.

Very slowly, she reaches one arm into the crate, extending a single finger and tracing soft patterns along the skin of his arm. He flinches slightly, at first, but slowly seems to relax a little when it becomes apparent that she is not going to grab him again. Then he fixes her with the same penetrating gaze as before, though perhaps with a trace of pensiveness, now. She heaves a weary sigh.

“I know I don’t smell very good,” she whispers in what she hopes comes off as a soothing tone, “but coming with me has to be better than spending the night in an old shipping crate, hm?”

They sit together for a few minutes, the baby still contemplating her with an air of great solemnity as she hums to him in a low voice, slowly moving her touch until she is brushing fingers across his chest. Over the plump curve of his cheek. Into the dark sweep of his hair. He no longer seems dismayed by the contact, but he does not lose the tension in his limbs, and there is a lingering wisp of anxiety curling around him.

Sooner or later, she will have to take him, regardless of his protests. The snow does not accumulate in the streets, of course, but that doesn’t stop it from blanketing the discarded crates, or an abandoned child, or her, for that matter. There is not much call for weather regulation in this part of the city, as no one lives here, and the individual warehouses are kept at the appropriate temperature for whatever they might be storing. Already she can feel the stiffness settling into her clothing, the numbness in her bare toes and the tips of her ears. She can only imagine how cold it must be as a small naked child without even the aid of magic to keep him warm.

As if on cue, the baby shivers and glances around, as though just now noticing the state of the weather. His face scrunches in a look of consternation before letting out a deep breath and burbling something at her. The sound seems to take him by surprise, as he makes another soft squeal of dismay, glancing down at his limbs and flailing them a bit. Wriggling as if trying to get somewhere without much success.

“Are you cold, little one?” Aili wonders, “I admire your determination, but if you plan on getting anywhere, I think you’re going to need some help.”

She holds her hands out to him, in offering this time, waiting to see if he will shy away again.

He blinks at her. Gurgles something reluctant, before twisting his face into a look of utter frustration. The behavior seems a bit strange for such a young baby, but there is something undeniably endearing about his apparent orneriness as well. He huffs at her, petulant, and Aili does her best not to giggle.

Finally, he extends his hands back towards her, making a grasping motion that is clear in its meaning: ‘Pick me up.’

Aili beams at him as she complies.

He grumbles a bit when she takes a moment to snuggle him, but she finds that she cannot help herself. Sullen or not, he is still a baby, and an uncommonly adorable one at that, though she might be slightly biased in his favor. She plants a kiss on his brow, and he puts his little chubby hands over her mouth in an obvious objection.

She snorts in amusement, grinning down at him and kissing at his fingers instead. Which earns her even more disgruntled babbling as he hastily moves his hands away from her mouth. What a strange little thing.

She loosens the ties on her tunic enough to tuck him into it, though the fit is a bit snugger than she would like. She does not envy him the smell that must be pervasive in there, but he only makes another low burble of dissatisfaction before settling in and accepting his lot. At least he is a quiet baby, she hates to think what might have happened if one of the Peacekeepers had come upon her has she was making this little discovery.

The thought stills her, and she takes a moment to actually consider the situation she has now found herself in.

It’s the middle of the night, she can’t just waltz into one of the Great Leaders’ palaces and hand him off to the first person she sees and expect to go skipping home afterwards. Cruelty towards a child is a very serious offense. There will be an investigation. Questions. Where did she find him? What was she doing out there so late?

And they will know if she lies. And she will be…punished.

Aili is a low-ranking servant. A nobody. An easy scapegoat. Many high-ranking followers would be content with blaming the entire incident on her and calling it a day. It certainly isn’t like Ghilan’nain is going to get worked up over the loss of one person under her ‘protection’.

She cannot do it. Outside of the risk to her own life, she would be risking the carefully laid groundwork that the resistance has been setting down for decades. And it would put other people at risk as well. Her friends, the General, and Dorian, and Squish… Uthvir…

She shakes her head.

Well…wherever she ends up taking him, they can’t stay here. And it would probably be best for everyone if she changed into something that didn’t stink of the sewers. And the baby could probably do with something to eat and a nice warm bath after his ordeal.

Back to her living quarters it is, then.

It takes her nearly twice as long as it normally would to get back to her little room, since she was not about to risk jumping from rooftop to rooftop with a baby in tow. She also tried to stick to as many of the back alleys and less-traversed areas of the district as she could, in the hopes of avoiding anyone who might be out for a late-night stroll, or just getting up to cover the early morning shift of their duties. Which, unsurprisingly, slowed her down considerably. But it is worth it if no one saw her roaming around covered in muck with a very suspicious lump under her tunic.

She ducks into her parents’ rooms to quickly gather some provisions, relieved for once that they are both out attending to their duties. Her father tends to keep all manner of goods hoarded away, in order to look after whatever strange little beasts he can smuggle away from Ghilan’nain’s laboratories. The failures are either executed out of hand or picked apart in search of flaws, usually while still very much alive, and Adhamh has never been able to bear the sight of suffering. Most of his brood tend to be young, so there are plenty of things that could easily be converted into some essential supplies for infant care.

The baby blinks up at his new surroundings curiously when she finally settles him down in a nest of blankets on her bed. There is not much to see in her cramped little quarters, but she and Uthvir had made a small decoration from discarded pieces of pretty glass and beads rescued from the incinerator in June’s tower that she keeps hanging near the window so it catches the light. She twirls it gently and the child’s eyes latch onto it in apparent fascination. She smiles down at him and heaves a sigh of mingled satisfaction and relief.

Safe.

For now, anyway.

Quick as she can, and with at least one eye trained on her little guest to make sure he does not roll off the bed or attempt to eat something not intended for consumption, Aili strips off her dirty clothes and does her level best to scrub herself free of the sewers with nothing but a wash basin and a simple bar of soap. It takes a bit of doing, as it always seems to, and her skin is pink from furious scouring by the time she is free of any unpleasant stench, but in the time she is clean and dressed in one of her night shirts, the baby seems to have grown bored with the makeshift mobile and started an inventory of all his limbs. He’s got one foot almost all the way up to his mouth and a look of befuddlement on his face, and she can’t help laughing at the sight.

“I think I can find something better for you to eat than toes,” she grins at him, daring to sneak a few fingers over and lightly tickle his belly before going to make up a bottle for him. Getting the proper formula for infants had not been an option, but there had been milk and bottles for nursing in her parents’ rooms. It is not ideal, but it will do well enough for a single night.

Aili sits down on the bed and pulls him back into her arms. He makes no fuss of it this time other than a look of mild concern, which she takes as a definite sign of progress. She shows him the bottle with a smile, sending a brief pulse of magic to her hand to warm it before offering it to him.

This is apparently the wrong thing to have done.

Fear bursts into the air around them as the babe makes a startled cry and begins a frantic bid to escape from her grasp. Aili finds herself at a complete loss, and it is all she can do to keep a hold on him so he does not end up toppling onto the floor. When it becomes apparent that getting away is not an option, the baby sags in her arms, dissolving into a hot mess of tears.

She moves him so that his head is resting on her shoulder, smoothing her hands down his back and murmuring words of comfort as he continues to wail into her shirt. He grabs a fistful of her hair, a great wave of grief rising up to mingle with his terror, and she does not know what else she can do to help him.

She starts singing.

The old lullabies her mother used to get her to sleep as a child. Silly songs about rabbits and cats and bumblebees. Soft songs about water and wind and ships sailing at night. Songs about trees and rain and sunlight. Songs about love.

Eventually he quiets, his sorrow mellowing to hiccups and the occasional sniffle. He looks tired when she cradles him in her lap again, pink-faced and yawning. She hesitantly lifts the bottle again, and he does not cry or flinch or push it away. He suckles at it as though on instinct, his eyes drooping slowly until he is finally claimed by sleep.

Aili stares down at his little face as he finally seems to relax, utterly at a loss.

He was not afraid of the bottle when she picked it up in her parents’ chambers, and he had not seemed remotely scared of it the second time she had offered it to him. What could have upset him? Had she moved too quickly? He does not seem to like sudden movements or a lot of touching, but while he had been wary of her holding him at first, it pales in comparison to the visceral reaction he had to a warm bottle of milk.

She pauses, considering.

Could it have been the spell she had used? Could it be that the people who had been looking after him had hurt him with magic as well as physical injury? Such a thing seemed too ghastly to even imagine, but…

But someone had left him alone in the snow. Left him to die.

Her heart aches, even as she feels a fresh wave of anger roiling in her gut. She can’t be sure if her theory is correct, and she would rather not test it and upset him again. He has already been through so much. Too much for someone so young.

She lays down on her bed, loosely curled around him, watching his face until she falls asleep.

~

She wakes a few hours later to the pale light of sunrise and the soft sounds of her little guest’s discomfort. She changes him and feeds him and sets up his nest of pillows and blankets again so she can put on fresh clothes. He lays there placidly enough, wide green eyes still peering around the room curiously.

On a whim, she turns and looks at the carvings she keeps on the top of her dresser. They are only made of scrap wood, but they are pretty enough in their way, and she is starting to build up quite the collection. Her father’s stag. Her mother’s barn owl. Her own pert eared little fox. The rough beginnings of a hawk, wings spread wide. And the oldest one; a crouching hare with long ears.

Aili palms the little creature, running her fingers over the smooth worn grain of the wood. She brings it over to show the baby, who reaches for it instantly. It is big enough that she doubts he could manage to choke on it, so she lets him take it, smiling down at him even as he regards the rabbit with a look of confusion.

“You remind me of someone I used to know, little man,” she tells him, running her fingers gently through the soft tuft of his dark hair, “He was always landing me in some sort of trouble, too.” The baby blinks up at her, the hare’s nose jammed half way into his mouth, and she sighs at him, lightly tugging it away. He can’t swallow it, but she probably shouldn’t let him try.

“What am I going to do with you?”

She…she cannot keep him herself. Not with her low standing and poor resources. This matter will undoubtedly be taken before the Evanuris themselves, who will squabble and bicker and pass him around to whichever of their followers seems the most suitable. Even if the term ‘most suitable’ really means ‘whoever is in favor right now’. Being good at political machinations is no indication of parental competency, not that being inept ever seems to stop some people from rising to prominence.

But what does she have to offer as a counterpoint? She is too young. Too lowly. Too unattached. The only people who really trust her judgement are her parents and the General’s ragtag group of miscreants.

The General. Now there is a thought. She will at least hear her out, and listen to her concerns about his dislike of touch and his sensitively to magic. She already has an adopted son of her own, after all. A foundling, just like her baby.

Aili swallows thickly, something unexpected and heavy lodging itself in her throat.

 _Her_ baby.

She shakes it away. Even the General could not convince Ghilan’nain to allow her to raise the child on her own. But Lavellan will look out for him, she can be certain of that. She will make sure that the parents who take him in are good, kind people. Uthvir and Squish and Haninan will keep an eye on him too, when they can. And maybe…maybe she will still be permitted to visit him every now and then.

She bundles him up in an absurd amount of blankets and tucks him into a deep basket. She lets him keep the hare, a token to remember her by. And then she takes a deep steadying breath, and heads out of her building in the direction of June’s tower.

It takes her the better part of the morning to get there. There is not anything overtly suspicious about a servant toting around a large basket, but she would prefer to avoid scrutiny just the same. Her cargo is mercifully quiet, and the few times she ducks into an alcove to check on him, he never seems to have managed anything worse than drooling on his toy rabbit.

She comes in through one of the servants’ entrances that Uthvir showed her. It can be a bit tricky to find her way through June’s ridiculous puzzle house, but she can usually find the meeting room the General favors, as well as Uthvir and Desire’s private rooms. She wishes she would run into one of her friends though. It feels like her heart is liable to beat its way straight out of her chest.

She comes to a junction of passageways and pauses. Weighing her options. Determining likely outcomes. She tucks herself into a little dark nook behind a statue and pulls the blankets away from her baby’s face. He looks up at her owlishly, glancing around at the strange new place she has brought him to, uncertainty permeating the air around him.

He reaches out and takes hold of her finger.

Resolution solidifies in her chest.

~

Uthvir answers the door when she knocks, looking half asleep and wholly surprised. She can’t exactly blame them, as this is not the hour nor the place they would usually meet each other. She bustles her way into their room without so much as a greeting, too caught up in the flurry of her own feelings and choices.

This is utter madness.

They look like they are about to make some sort of joke about the state of her arrival, but something about her expression must still their tongue. They do quirk a brow at her, though. Expectant.

She holds the basket out to them, tears welling in her eyes.

“Please, help me.”


	8. Finders Keepers

Uthvir likes to think that they are prepared for a lot of situations.

Attacks, insinuations, sudden explosions, infiltrations – they’re not an impenetrable fortress of self-sufficiency, but they make an effort, and compared to most of Arlathan’s mid-ranking populace they think they’re pretty on the ball.

But Aili rushing into their rooms with a mysterious basket that has _a baby_ in it, and bursting into tears, actually takes them a minute to process.

Are they dreaming?

No.

Is that actually a baby?

Looks like it.

Is that actually _Aili?_

…Pretty irrefutably, yes.

Aili’s still holding the basket and crying and looking at Uthvir like they might be her last hope in the universe, enough so that Uthvir’s first thought is for escape routes and ways to flee the city and go live out in the wilderness somehow with Aili and her illegal baby and minimize the chances of someone coming and trying to find them. But then the rest of their mind kicks in, and points out that Aili could not have _possibly_ had a secret baby without them noticing, which means that the baby has come from somewhere, and this situation is complicated and probably worth investigating.

“What?” Uthvir eloquently manages.

The baby looks at them very critically, for such a tiny thing. Not unlike Dorian was when he was that small.

“I found him,” Aili tells them, curling the basket up closer to her chest and looking at the baby with her heartbreaking eyes. “I was doing one of the sewer jobs, and I was on my way back home and I heard something and then I found him. In an alley, by the warehouses. In the _snow_ , Uthvir! Someone left him out there in the snow, with the garbage, like he was worthless! I had to take him with me, he would have died. But I could hardly go to anyone, they would have asked what I was doing there and what could I say? So I took him home with me. I managed to get him to eat, my father has his animal supplies and some formula for baby creatures and he seems fine with it, but he was frightened when I used a spell to warm it and – and I think someone has been _hurting_ him, Uthvir. I think they have been using magic on him, like some kind of experiment or – or _something._ I do not know. Who would do that kind of thing? To a baby? Who would have a baby and then treat him like that?”

Uthvir stares, and then actually considers the question.

“Possibly whoever has been abandoning babes out in the wilderness?” they suggest. “We need to take him to the General. She will know what to do.”

Aili only cries harder, then.

“I know,” she says. “I know. But then what? The leaders will yell and debate and make a great deal of fuss about this happening again. June will probably hand him off to some favoured follower, or else relinquish him to Ghilan’nain, or someone else. Elgar’nan, maybe. They will take him, and, and… he is not a normal baby, Uthvir! He does not like to be held, he does not like magic, he will not be all apple-cheeked smiles and giggles. What if the elves who take him do not like him?”

She swallows.

_“I_ like him,” she says.

_I want him,_ Uthvir hears.

And some part of them thinks that of course she does. Of course she does, she is Aili, and she cares about things so easily, even when they are not nearly so precious as babies. And she is low-ranking, they know, she has never been able to curry much favour among Ghilan’nain’s followers. There is too much petty sabotage and in-fighting, and Aili does not have much of a mind for the necessary ruthless social climbing, and her talents are not the type to draw Ghilan’nain’s interest in particular. Her chances of ever having a child just on her own are slim.

Finding something so precious, so unattainable, thrown away like trash…

Uthvir lets out a breath, and then moves a little closer. Peering down into the basket. The baby is chewing on one of his fists, clutching a smooth carved hare that they recognize from Aili’s chambers. His little brows are furrowed. Angry, but it is unclear what he is angry at. Possibly that is just the way his face likes to rest. His aura is a fluctuating mix of general unhappiness; but he is quiet about it, at least.

“Hello,” they say, recollecting their first introduction to Dorian, and what the General had told them. “I am Uthvir, little one.”

The baby’s glower does not abate.

Aili still looks like she has suffered too many upsets in too short of a time. Her own emotions are leaking through, possibly more loudly than she means for them too. Longing and fear and an edge of resigned grief, mixed with a bright and persistent note of hope that keeps creeping towards Uthvir.

They give the matter a moment’s more consideration. It is too early in the morning for this kind of thing.

“Wait here,” they decide. “With the baby. Do not open the door if anyone knocks. I will go and see what I can do.”

“He should eat again, soon. I think,” Aili says. “I do not have anything to feed him with…”

“I will see to that, too, then,” Uthvir agrees, and her distress is such that they cannot resist the urge to reach over and take her by the shoulder. Brushing her cheek just gently along the way, before offering her a reassuring squeeze. “Leave it to me.”

Aili still seems morose, but that hope shines a little brighter as she settles down with her precious basket, sinking into the visitor’s chair which they keep by the door. Their chambers are not terribly large, but they are bigger than hers, with a little front sitting area and a bedroom, and a small wash station. Too many things for a baby to get into trouble with, but they trust her not to just let him crawl about as he pleases.

With one last, reluctant check over the room, they make their way into the hall. Shutting the door and the secrets securely behind them. They make their first trip down to the kitchens. There is not much call, currently, for infant formula, but there are generally foods that are deemed sufficient for ‘developing bodies’, and they find a sealed supply of milk in that area of the pantry that they can only assume is appropriate. They take it back to Aili, before making their way up to the General’s offices.

On their way, they pass Dorian.

“Urgent business?” Dorian asks, cocking an eyebrow as he takes in their stride.

“You could say that,” Uthvir allows. “Is your mother around?”

“She just left for Uncle’s chambers, but you can probably still catch her if you hurry.”

“Much obliged,” they thank, and quicken their pace, speeding through one of Haninan’s shortcuts and coming out at a wall a few feet from where the General is striding. She blinks at them, one arm folded around a half dozen scrolls, and slows down as they fall into pace beside her.

“General,” Uthvir says. “The new maps of the outlying region have arrived, and there is an error with some of them.” It is a code, of course; a signal that they need to meet in private, to speak.

The General barely inclines her head in acknowledgement, to all appearances still mostly concerned with her destination.

“Did they forget to seal the spells properly again?” she asks.

“No, it is a new issue,” they tell her.

“Oh, wonderful. And I suppose it needs a hand from someone with the rank to see it properly settled?” she surmises.

“Absolutely, I am afraid, or I would never have bothered you about it,” they agree.

“Alright, then. Bring the maps to my office,” she instructs.

Well, that… would be tricky.

“There are quite a lot of them,” they say. “I do not mean to impose, but…”

“No, of course,” she immediately agrees. “And if there is trouble I hardly want you carting it through the entire tower. Especially not with construction still going on in the Southeast and North segments. Magical fluctuations could interfere with the delicate scrollwork. The barracks shipping house, then?”

There is a building secured for such things. Uthvir thinks they could safely get Aili and the baby to it without drawing notice.

“That will do,” they agree. “When can I expect you?”

At that, the General does pause, a little. They are certain she notes the urgency.

“As soon as I am finished with my brother. I was planning on a rest day, but I was being over-optimistic, perhaps,” she tells them. “I should not be more than an hour.”

“My thanks,” Uthvir agrees, and offers her a bow worthy of her station, before forcing themselves to casually withdraw. They have committed plenty of covert operations in their time, but this one seems tense in a way that few of the others have been. Heavy with the odd stakes of the matter. They do not know what the General will decide, really, but…

Aili wishes to keep that baby.

It would be absurd for it to be awarded to her, however. So far as they know she does not even have a petition standing, and even if she did it would be with Ghilan’nain, not June, and the General is unlikely to turn a mysteriously discovered infant over to the care of a different leader. The idea that June would award an infant to a low-ranking servant of Ghilan’nain is laughable. Perhaps he _might,_ under the right circumstances, award one to her highest ranking people, as some sort of political gesture. But Aili? No. Never. There would be nothing to gain from it, and a great deal of scrutiny would ensue.

Not to mention that there are plenty of petitioners wanting children among June’s own favoured. All of them would be offended at being passed over.

But Uthvir…

Well.

Uthvir is unlikely too, they suppose. They are only mid-ranking and have made no petitions for a child themselves. However, there have been more openings among the middle ranks for adoptions of late. An incident in one of the larger forges just outside the city saw three craftsmen perish, and then a labourer executed for failing to properly secure several safety measures. The General had been at odds with her brother over the verdict, but ultimately, Uthvir is fairly certain that the fault had actually been with the labourer. They had not paid so much attention, but with all the dead being of middle rank, they had heard some tentative optimism over the situations that a few more petitions would pass among prospective parents there.

They had not considered becoming one of them. And some part of them feels that perhaps it would be cruel, to take a precious slot that another has waited so long to fill.

But the baby is already born. And they think it would be crueler, still, to pull him from Aili’s arms, when she held him with such obvious concern.

They could do it, they think. They could call in favours. They could fall to their knees and beg the General, they could cite the strangeness of the circumstance and the similarities to Dorian’s, could finesse and cajole and make promises. They are a valuable agent, and they have always been grateful, and have never asked for anything so big…

Perhaps.

And then Aili could keep the child. They could help her look after him. They suppose they would have to keep him, too, and they are not so certain they could make for any kind of decent parent. They doubt it is something Ghilan’nain wrote into their basic being, but they had done alright with Dorian, they think. They could definitely feed Aili’s baby, and change him, and watch him and make sure he does not put anything disagreeable in his mouth, or touch anything that might give him a rash. They could make sure nothing falls on him or tries to eat him. The basics. And then, well, whatever they are deficient in, they are certain Aili could make up the difference.

She is very good at looking after things.

Squish would probably help, too. They have friends. They could manage a baby; it only takes twenty-five years for them to start looking after themselves a bit, anyway.

They are still mulling the matter over when they get back to their chambers.

Aili is where they left her. There is an empty bottle on the table next to her chair, and spit up on the armrest. The baby glares defiantly at them, but his eyes seem to be going droopy. The overall effect is inherently adorable, but it does not account for the way their heart skips a beat at the sight of Aili, sitting there. Holding her baby.

Uthvir takes a moment, but she does not seem to have even realized that they are in the room.

_Note to self: Aili’s awareness of her surroundings decreases exponentially when in close proximity to babies._

At least the _baby_ seems to have noticed them.

They clear their throat, though, and the spell is broken. She blinks up at them, and then is on her feet.

“Well?” she asks.

“We have a meeting with the General,” they tell her.

Her expression does a mixed, twisting thing, before she lets out another sigh. Then it is a matter of getting the baby settled into the basket. Uthvir is skeptical of whether or not he will keep quiet, but Aili assures them that he did not make a sound the entire time she was carrying him here. Dorian had never seemed particularly reluctant to make noise, but he had also quieted whenever the General told him to. Perhaps that is a thing with babies, they think. Perhaps they instinctively listen to their parents, on some subjects, and perhaps this baby knows that he is Aili’s already.

The thought cements something inside of them. If the baby thinks he is Aili’s, and Aili wishes for him so badly, and has asked for their help so thoroughly…

They hesitate, before leaving the room.

“If it were an option,” they ask. “Would you object to having me parent a child with you?”

Aili blinks at them, and surprise rushes through the air between them. She opens her mouth, and then closes it. The baby glowers from beneath his shielding blankets, still losing his battle with sleep.

“…No,” she manages.

It seems like that is all she can manage.

But Uthvir suppose it will do. They could hardly expect _enthusiasm,_ of course, they would not be her first choice so much as the only choice. It would not be like… like an accepted courtship. Like some, who raise children together. They are friends, and Aili would probably not be eager to share her baby with anyone, if she had the option. They can hardly blame her for that.

With a nod of acknowledgement, they open the door, and set out again.

It is almost surprising when they manage to make it to the secured store room without incident. The baby falls asleep in the time it takes the General to arrive, and Aili watches him in utter fascination. Staring at the little bow of his mouth as it trembles, like he is crying in his dreams. The air around him gradually becomes more fraught, and Uthvir is disturbed by the intensity of it.

“What experience could a baby have to draw such awful dreams?” Aili asks, softly.

Uthvir stares at the darkening emotions around the little basket.

“The General told me, once, that babies feel everything more keenly, because it is more visceral to them. When the world is new, every injury feels like a massive wound, and every sorrow is the biggest sorrow they have ever experienced,” they say. “Perhaps it is more intense because to him, it feels so big.”

Aili’s expression falls; and then tightens in anger.

“Who would do such a thing?” she asks. “What could possibly – what _reason_ …?”

Uthvir thinks of Ghilan’nain, who owns the writing on Aili’s face. Who once made a cage to house a spirit who never wanted to be an elf, and made it well enough that the project kept walking long after the spirit had gone. The experiments of her reputation. The rumours of her interest in infants, in bred creatures and growing things. The mechanics of life.

“Maybe he is not like other elves,” they suggest.

Aili rounds on them.

“What would that matter?” she says. “He is a baby! It is plain to see, he feels, he cries, he is small and helpless and _alive._ I cannot see a single fault in him that would make him anything less than another baby, and even if I could, no one is perfect.”

“Yes, but perhaps someone _made_ him,” Uthvir suggests. “An experiment. A construct, of some kind, but… it did not go how they intended.”

Aili frowns.

“A baby is a baby,” she insists. “However he came to be, how could he fail at being what he obviously _is?”_

Uthvir has no answer for that.

And then the baby wakes up, and while babes need their sleep and even they know that, perhaps it is for the best that the bad dream is interrupted. He cries, and the crying seems to crack into full-blown sobs. Uthvir is glad that the room is soundproofed in many ways, as Aili ventures soft hands into the basket. They watch, fascinated, as she seems to hesitate. At least until the baby reaches back for her. Then she scoops him up, wrapping one of the blankets securely around him as she holds him close, and offers him comfort.

The General comes into the room as Aili is pacing around it, rocking the baby.

She comes up short in surprise.

“General,” Uthvir greets. “Aili found a baby in the garbage. We have to keep him.”

That is… not what they meant to say.

They can be smooth, sometimes, they _swear_ they can.

The General just stares at the baby for a moment, and then lets out a long and troubled breath.

“Alright,” she says. “From the top, please. And we will see what we can do.”


	9. Sink or Swim

Everything happens in a kind of a whirlwind, once the General gets involved.

Once again, Uthvir finds the woman expending a lot of resources and energy and effort for their sake, and also once again, they are not entirely sure why. But they are grateful for it. Always and forever. They end up having to leave the baby with the General for a few hours, so that Aili can go back to her duties, and Uthvir and Dorian, when he gets involved, can start taking up the measures that the General requires of them, in order to make sure that Aili can keep her baby.

Though technically it is going to be _Uthvir’s_ baby, now. That is just paperwork, though, they tell themselves. They are not stealing Aili’s baby, they never would and besides which, they are not even sure what to _do_ with a baby – however coveted the honour may be, it is not one they personally expected to have.

But paperwork has to be falsified, and reports, and a city manager and several peacekeepers who work for the General must be given missives with the right seals on them. Packages that are unopened, handed between hands so that no one is quite certain what everything contains, but the right files end up in the right record offices, too. Then the General has to retrieve the baby ‘from’ the outer regions of June’s territory, and June himself must be approached with the topic as if he already knows what is going on. Uthvir is given the baby, who is sleeping by then, having been chosen from a petition list supposedly years old that was actually scripted today; and then Aili must be summoned from her duties, to have official paperwork on co-parenting filled out and signed.

And by the end of the day, Uthvir is only just realizing that their tiny quarters in the tower barracks are nowhere _near_ suitable for raising a child in. They are not quite certain what _is_ suitable for raising a child in, but they have some vague notion of cradles and toys and nurseries with… mobiles? And things? They know what Dorian had, but Dorian is the General’s son, and they do not think that would represent the standard, all things considered.

So then there is another rush, as they have to go to the tower manager to request new quarters – fortunately, the request is approved with little fuss – and Aili must obtain a leave of absence from her own supervisors, which is a little more difficult. They do not want to let her take a leave until the official paperwork is approved of, and Uthvir has to go down to the outer stables themselves to _prove_ that they have chosen Aili to co-parent their…

Their son.

Which is more that than can think about at the moment, and again, they remind themselves, it is only a technicality. Aili ends up spending the night with her baby and her parents, while Uthvir and Squish go and gather up some of her belongings from her own little apartment in the city, and then empty out Uthvir’s chambers and move them to the new rooms; ones within the tower itself, on the floor normally reserved for engineering managers and overseers. Uthvir’s rank is technically sufficient for it, however, and there is a set of rooms designed for family living already available there. Four bedrooms, and a personal bath, and a sitting room; a workshop, and even a small indoor garden area. Enchanted to feel like the outdoors, with a square of simulated sky overhead, and enough space for a couple of chairs and a few decorative plants.

The number of people interested in helping is not insignificant, either. Friends and fellow agents and co-workers, and those who are now technically Uthvir’s ‘neighbours’, all seem very curious over the new baby and the opportunity to help. They do not even have to go scrounging for very much to fill the nursery. The General brings them Dorian’s old crib, and Haninan turns up with soft toys and blankets and a little round music box that plays at a touch. Other offerings come; baby clothes and diapers and formula and recommendations, the last seeming to just fly out of people’s mouths, even if Uthvir does not think they have ever seen a baby in their lives.

By the time Squish has helped them finish moving everything in, the nursery is fit to overflow, the sitting room has been turned into some kind of baby playground, every sharp edge in their new quarters has been rounded off, and their own belongings – and Aili’s – seem to barely fill up a quarter of the bedroom space each of them now has.

Uthvir almost feels as though they should leave the chambers with Squish, when it is all done. As if they have been setting up things for someone else’s life, and yet, this is… theirs, now.

They blink around at it all.

“It will be alright,” Desire tells them. “I remember you being good with Dorian.”

“Yes, but I did not have to _keep_ him,” they counter, letting some of their worry show. “I killed that plant…”

“Yes, but that is because you forgot it existed for a month,” Desire points out. “It is much harder to do that with babies, I hear.”

Uthvir lets out a breath, and nods.

Desire pats their shoulder.

“Come on,” she says. “Come morning these chambers will be baby territory. So I say we go get some hard liquor and a few friends, and celebrate them now, before intoxication and loud noises become unacceptable. Hm?”

Getting drunk seems like a good idea, in fact. Uthvir agrees, and so the last hours of the night are eaten up with some celebratory drinking, and lots of congratulations on them ‘finally’ getting a baby. They feel like something of a heel at that, again, until they remember Aili’s face as she looked down at the little one, and then their guilt vanishes in a poof of smoke and sunlit wine.

They are perhaps, possibly, maybe, just the tiniest bit still drunk when the General comes by in the morning, and forces half a gallon of water down their throat.

“Steady on,” she advises. “That baby will _not_ be impressed if he comes home and you are wasted.”

Uthvir thinks of that tiny, disapproving face, and finds they can only agree.

“Babies are judgemental,” they murmur, and splash a little water over their cheeks for good measure.

The General pats them on the back.

“Some are,” she agrees. “I have a favour to ask.”

Uthvir glances at her, and raises their eyebrows; the water jug still firmly in their grasp.

“General, you could ask for my kidney at this point and I would let you take it with your bare hands,” they inform her.

She frowns.

“Ew,” she offers. “No. Uthvir. Definitely not, that is not what friends are for. Actually I was just… I think I know a name. For the baby?”

They blink, and take a moment to process that.

“Your… you want to name Aili’s baby?” they ask. It is an odd request, they think, but, probably not one they would be inclined to refuse. Would Aili be upset about it? Parents usually name their infants, Uthvir thinks. It is a tradition, of sorts, but then, maybe the baby can have two names if Aili takes issue with it. Some people have a lot of names. Or change names.

Uthvir picked their own name. When he is older, the baby might want to do that anyway.

“Fenris,” the General tells them.

_Little Wolf?_

“I… will discuss it with Aili?” they suggest.

It earns them a smile, and a nod of thanks.

“Just consider it,” she asks. “But do not worry, nothing is conditional on it. It is just, while I was with him yesterday, it… seemed like the name for him.”

Well, the General has been around the block a few times, and raised a child herself. Uthvir shrugs, and nods, and supposes she would know better than them about these things. They go with her to breakfast, in the end, making it to the hall in time to grab the freshest offerings of the first servings going around. They drink enough bitter tea to chase away the lingering edge of numbness, and chase it with a meat pie, before considering the spread, and then folding another pie and some fruit tarts into a napkin, and carrying them back to their chambers. Aili might be hungry.

Per their agreement, Uthvir heads into the city to retrieve her, so that she doesn’t have to try and find their new chambers on her own.

They get to her parents’ house, and have barely knocked on the door when it opens and Aili’s father crushes them in an unexpected embrace.

Uthvir blinks.

“You wonderful person!” the man exclaims. “A baby, oh, that precious little baby, thank you, thank you!”

He is not terribly articulate, and then he starts crying and Uthvir really does not know what to do. They know what to do even less when Aili’s mother – who has regarded them with what could best be terme d ‘wary suspicion’ for much of the time they have known her – greets them with a smile of her own. She has the baby in her arms; all wrapped up in a soft blanket, and leaning on her shoulder.

Fenris, Uthvir supposes. He looks at them with his tiny green eyes narrowed, and at least _someone_ is acting like they still think Uthvir is somewhat sketchy.

It is almost a relief.

“You… are welcome…?” Uthvir manages.

“We will come and visit this evening,” Ina’then informs them, while Uthvir finally manages to pry her husband off of themselves.

“Of course,” they agree. “I can give you directions…?”

It is apparently the right thing to say. They end up giving some verbal instructions and then drawing a small map – the tower can be tricky, after all – by the time Aili emerges, carrying several baskets and a with a pack slung over her back, like she is planning to go deliver a load of goods to the market, rather than just seeing herself and the baby to their new chambers. It is especially strange, since Uthvir moved the relevant belongings from her own chambers last night.

They move to take several of the baskets, and she lets out a sigh.

“I have a wrap for the baby,” she tells them, and pulls it out of one of the top baskets.

“What is all this?” Uthvir asks.

Aili’s mother folds her arms.

“We would hardly let you take our new grandson home with _nothing_ ,” she asserts.

“Some of the neighbours wanted to help,” Aili adds, and gets the baby sling in place, before taking the baby it is meant for from her mother. Fenris settles into place, looking somewhat dubious until he is secured; and then he rests his head against Aili’s chest, and radiates a little disgruntled puff of emotion, that seems edged with some odd sense of comfort.

Uthvir is bemused; but apparently, that is as close to approval as things will be getting.

They take the baskets, and the pack from Aili, and manage to escape her parents by virtue of the fact that _they_ do not have any leave from their own duties. Navigating the city streets with a visible baby slows their progress by an incredibly margin, and not because either of them are unduly encumbered, either. But any time someone sees them, it seems that they have to stop and be greeted, the baby cooed over. Until at last, by unspoken agreement, they veer off into the side streets and alleys again. Doing their best to avoid notice.

It becomes impossible when they actually make it to the tower, however. There are too many people expecting them. Too many friends and colleagues eager to get a look at the baby, calling out their names, fussing over his little chubby cheeks and ‘beautiful eyelashes’ and miniature nose, hands, feet, ears… everything is complimented, until finally Fenris himself decides he has had enough of it, and lets out an ear-splitting _shriek_ of objection.

The cry echoes through the halls, and at least gives them a good excuse to hurry him the rest of the way home.

Aili holds him close, cooing and crooning comfortingly, and glaring daggers at anyone else who tried to get a look at him.

“Poor thing,” she says, as soon as they get in through the door. “I am so sorry, little one, I should have chased them off sooner.” She had not let any of them touch him, Uthvir had noted; but apparently the amount of attention given to him was enough.

Fenris sniffs, and lets loose a stream of not-quite-cries, curling a hand in Aili’s shirt as she rocks him a little.

“But, look, we made it,” she tells him, and then finally takes in the new chambers herself.

Uthvir waits.

The rooms are not perfect, they know. One of the bedrooms is still mostly unfurnished, just with the bed and side table that were already in it, and much of everything else is meant for the baby. They are an interior set, so there is only one real window – a small, round fixture in the sitting room – but the enchantments on the others are good. They checked themselves. And it is not so far from one of the dining halls, and the bathroom has a small pool in it, with a little barrier to keep the baby from wandering in.

“This is… big…” Aili offers.

Fenris stares dubiously up at the ceiling, which is covered in artful bronze sworls.

“I know it is not very well decorated right now,” Uthvir agrees. “I can try and find some things for that. I put you in the room next to the nursery, but if you think one of the others would be better, we can rearrange things. There is a work room – I was hoping I could use that, but there is also another bedroom, so we could convert it into a work space for you, too, if you like… or just a guest room, I suppose…”

They have never really had this much space to themselves, either.

Aili shakes her head, though they are not sure if she is agreeing or disagreeing. She walks a little further in, and turns around, Taking in all the things which people brought.

“There is a private bath, too,” they tell her. “With a basin that is a good size for the baby. I thought that might suit him better than the public ones, since he does not like to be touched…”

There had been another few sets of rooms; one smaller, but closer to the outer areas of the tower, with more natural windows. The other outside of the tower, closer to the barracks. But neither had offered the perk of the private bath.

“Can I see it?” Aili asks.

They nod, and show her to where it is. She stares for a long moment, taking in the pool and the little basin, and the sinks and the pale stone decorating most things. And then they show her the nursery, too, and her own room; and theirs and the empty one, just in case she likes one of them better. But in the end she just shakes her head, and settles down onto the side of the bed the claimed for themselves. It came with the room; bigger than their last, with carved metal posts that looked a little too mean for Aili, they thought.

“You really did it,” she says, faintly. Looking down at Fenris.

They realize, then, that they _have._

That they have rooms and Aili will be living in them, and the baby – a baby they are going to raise together – will also be living in them, and…

They just changed their whole life, in fact.

Aili sniffs.

The baby goes quiet, and stops trying to stuff his fist in his mouth.

Uthvir ventures a little closer.

“Is this alright?” they wonder.

But the emotions swirling around Aili, though tinged with disbelief and some other, complex emotions, seem largely to be overwhelmed with _positive_ sensations. Relief and happiness, both in manners hard to describe, as she smooths a thumb over Fenris’ fingers, and then looks up at then with her eyes shining.

Uthvir could not stop themselves from touching her if they tried. They reach a hand for her shoulder, and then somehow find themselves pulled down next to her. Clutched as close as they can be, with the baby snug between them. He makes only a brief, little grumbly noise of complaint.

“Thank you!” she says. “I cannot believe you _did it,_ I am never going to be able to save your life enough times to match this!”

They let out a breath, and close their eyes. Taking a moment to just enjoy the feel of her – them – in their arms.

_I love you,_ they almost blurt.

It is a force of effort to hold it in. To keep it from spilling out of them in sentiment rather than words, too. But Aili is so awash with fierce affection, that what does bleed through does not seem to garner much notice.

“You never have to pay me back,” they tell her, instead.

Fenris presses a tiny elbow against their chest, protesting his lack of space, then.

Uthvir moves back, and AIli murmurs an apology. Turning her head a little, and swiping at her tears.

“Sorry,” she says. “It just… came over me.”

_Me too,_ they think.

“The baby should eat,” she realizes.

“I’ll get is formula,” they offer, and then look at his little face. “Are you hungry, Fenris?”

His brow scrunches.

Aili’s does, too.

“Fenris?” she asks.

“Oh,” they say. “The General… she said she thought it would be a good name…”

Aili seems to mull it over, looking down towards the baby herself. He glances back at her, and makes the first sound which Uthvir has heard out of him that seems vaguely positive. After a moment, then, Aili just shrugs.

“Alright then,” she agrees. “I guess she certainly helped enough to earn a suggestion…”

“That was my thinking, too,” they admit. And then they manage a smile. _Little Wolf._ “He is a bit wolfish for a baby, isn’t he?”

Fenris lets out a tiny huff. Or possibly growl.

Aili brushes a hand over his cheeks.

“For a baby,” she allows, and Uthvir finally turns, and goes to get that formula.


	10. Nanae

Fenris has no memories of his previous childhood.

It is a fact that he had always lamented before now, but if being an infant was even half as frustrating the first time around as it is in his present circumstances… Well. It might have been one of the rare boons of his existence.

He does not like being a child. Even with all his prior memories and knowledge still intact, his body is woefully lacking in self-sufficiency in its present state. He cannot make his tongue form words as he would wish. He cannot walk, let alone fend off any sort of attackers. He cannot seem to stop himself from attempting to shove all manner of strange objects into his mouth, usually his own feet. He finds himself frequently distracted by shiny objects. And the fact that he cannot control his own bowel movements is just…humiliating.

He does not like this place, either. Arlathan. With its abundance of magic, and its parade of people who seem to have nothing better to do with their time than to fuss over him and try to pinch his cheeks. It seems more like a madhouse than anything, or perhaps his own personal version of hell. The stupid building they have settled him in has _moving walls_ , for pity’s sake. It is like some twisted magister’s wet dream. But with elves. Elves with Dalish tattoos. He can almost hear Merrill laughing at him from beyond the grave.

That thought still stings a little. Or…perhaps more than a little. More than he would ever care to admit.

At least the woman who found him first, Ally or Alee or some such, tends to keep most people from trying to manhandle him. And after the incident with the bottle, she appears to be doing her level best not to use spells around him, for which he is grateful. She seems like a decent sort.

Even if she is a mage.

Still, he supposes things could be worse, though probably not by much. He seems to have landed in relatively close proximity to other people from his world, the former Inquisitor and some human friend of hers, by the sound of it. They have not had much opportunity for discussion, however, and even if they had, Fenris could not pose any questions of his own that did not come out as disgruntled burbling.

Lavellan had at least managed to parse out his name during one brief session of ‘babysitting’, with the aid of a sheet of paper with the Common alphabet written on it and a lot of pointing and gestures and head shaking. And, if he had not already been persuaded that the woman had somehow gained a similar rank in this world as she had held in the other one, the fact that she had somehow managed to talk everyone else into call him by his real name with hardly any fuss or objection would have convinced him. That, and all the bowing.

He had not been able to follow most of the upheaval that his discovery seems to have created, but in the end, it looks like he will be staying with the girl who found him and her…associate.

He does not know what to make of this Uthvir, and it seems as though the feeling is a mutual one. Luckily for both parties, Ailee is more than happy to take most of the arduous duties of infant care onto herself. Which, he has found…acceptable. Truthfully, he is not used to the idea of someone willing to constantly shower him with such constant, forthright affection, and he is not precisely certain what to make of it. But she sees to his needs well enough, and she is sensitive to his…peculiarities. She seems like the soft, sentimental sort, and the worst she is likely to do to him is try to convince him to play with one of the ridiculous stuffed toys that people keep bringing him.

Uthvir does not appear to be her husband, or wife, or…really anything he would generally associate with people of a similar age who agree to raise a child together. Perhaps they are related? Friendly cousins or some such. But he thinks he catches their eyes following Alleigh around, tracking her movements in a very… _nonfamilial_ way.

Not that that is any of his business.

Whatever they are to each other, it is intimate enough that Allie moves the scant belonging she must have had in that tiny broom closet she had brought him to when she scooped him out of the gutter into adjoining rooms in the ridiculous churning puzzle house that Uthvir lives in, so that they can all function as a family unit. Or at least some approximation of one. Fenris cannot imagine himself referring to his caretakers as his mother and father, or…whatever title it is they expect him to use for Uthvir. He already had parents. Or at least, Varania had said so durning their fateful meeting in Kirkwall, and it had seemed…right.

Even if he does not remember any more of them than that.

Regardless, they are all doing their best to adjust to this new life, and Fenris is trying to make his peace with things as they stand. But it is difficult. He is angry and malcontent more often than not, and he finds himself screaming in what must seem like petulant fury over trifles. Breaking toys and knocking things off tables and flailing tiny fists in an effort to fend off any sort of comforting touch.

He is bereft and helpless and completely at the mercy of an entire world of strange people with strange habits who speak in a language that he only understands in floating broken fragments of passing phrases.

Aillie is always there, however. Whenever he has calmed enough to feel the slightest curl of shame at his rage. He does not know if it is the primal instincts of a child, or a wish to offer some sort of apology, or some much deeper, fragile emotion within him that he would rather not contemplate, but… When he reaches out for her, and she lefts up into her embrace, and it is warm and gentle, and not nearly as constricting as he would have thought it would be, he feels…better. Just a bit. Just for a little while.

On one particularly frustrating day, Fenris finds himself compelled to spend the better part of a half an hour pitching his soft toy blocks around their sitting room in a fit of pique, doing his best to yell obscenities all the while. Becoming even more irritated when all he can manage is unintelligible gurgling. Which leads to outright sobbing. Which is honestly as infuriating as all the rest put together; that he cannot seem to stop himself from wailing at every little upset as though he were… Well. A child.

Aylie comes to his aid, as expected, her ambiguous counterpart lurking close behind. Clearly concerned, but willing to concede to her expertise. As usual.

Fenris waves them both off. He does not want to be coddled. He wants to be able to run. And fight. And voice his thoughts. Even the constant ache of the lyrium brands in his skin did not seem like such an insurmountable limitation on his freedom as the state of his tiny infant body.

He cries himself to sleep right there on the floor.

His dreams are dark, as they so often are. The world burning. Screams in the dark. The faces of his comrades, their voices calling to him for aid. Older hurts come for him as well. The brands burning his flesh, the smell of cooking meat and burning hair as pain ripped across his senses until his consciousness dissolved into nothing except bright blinding agony. Days of chains and blood. A living weapon with no will of his own, afraid and wanting, but not even having enough of his own memories left to piece together into the man he might have been. The death of the Fog Warriors. Varania’s betrayal. Hawke…

_Hawke._

He wakes in his crib, just as morose as he had been when he fell asleep. A thin warbling sob scrapes out of him, and he is too exhausted to even be mad at himself about it. Before long, he is back to full blown wailing, and he thinks that his caretakers are probably as sick of his tempestuous moods as he is. But he cannot seem to help himself.

To his surprise, it is Uthvir who comes to the side of his little bed, venturing a tentative hand to stroke his hair. Fenris swats them away impatiently, looking around for his usual source of comfort.

But she does not come.

Uthvir says something to him, possibly an explanation or an apology, some soft murmuring in regards to Aelei, anyway. Fenris supposes it was foolish to assume she would constantly be at his beck and call whenever he was having one of his emotional eruptions, but he feels a distant prickle of betrayal none the less. He cries harder.

There are hands held out to him, and before he is completely aware of it, he finds himself reaching back, just wanting all the insufferable sobbing to be done with.

And then, strong lean arms. A hesitant palm pressed to his back. A bit of cautious patting a rubbing, as though trying to mimic the things they have seen Aelee do. After a while, they even start humming under their breath.

Begrudgingly, Fenris slowly finds himself calming down. He allows Uthvir to feed him, and they both settle down on the couch. His caretaker seems to think he requires further comforting, so they continue to hold him in their lap and speak softly to him, though the content of their speech is largely lost on Fenris, and met with little more than quiet glaring.

And, since his body seems proficient at almost nothing else, eventually Fenris finds himself drifting back towards the shores of sleep.

He blearily opens his eyes to Ailea pulling a blanket up over them and tucking it around him gently. He glowers at her, still not liking the fact that he had briefly been divested of the one person around here that seems even slightly normal. She answers his disapproval with a quiet giggle and a finger to her lips, begging for his silence. He shifts a little in order to peer up at his other caretaker and finds that at some point, they have both slumped over on the couch, dead to the world; Fenris passed out flat against their chest with their arms loosely draped around him.

He sighs in resignation as Ailli presses a kiss to his brow, not even bothering to shoo her away, for once. He supposes he can lay here a little while longer and let them sleep. They have done him a service, and it isn’t as though he has any more exciting plans scheduled for this part of the day.

Looking after a child must be exhausting. And looking after him in particular is probably arduous beyond anything they were expecting. But Ailii is doing well enough at it, and she seems to trust Uthvir enough with it, so…

Perhaps they are not so bad.


	11. No

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The artist mentioned is Scurvaliciousbay's Adannar, and his son is Tonlen. <3

Perhaps unsurprisingly, the first word Fenris manages to master is _no_.

This is followed in quick succession by other such gems; _stop_ , _don’t_ , and _down_ , to name a few. While his progress may still be slower than he would like, he can at least understand most of what people are saying to him, even if he cannot actually get his mouth to form the proper words to reply without butchering them horribly. He might not be winning any awards for poetry any time in the near future, but Fenris can at least take some satisfaction in finally being able to articulate _something_.

“Ah-lee,” he grumbles out one day while they are getting ready to go on a picnic in one of the little gardens outside of June’s tower, and she is fussing with the buttoning of his little cardigan. She has him perched up on the dresser in her bedroom, which, even after all these months of habitation, is still only sparsely furnished. She sighs at his discontent and pauses long enough to tussle his hair. He scowls in retaliation, pushing her hand away, but she only laughs.

“You’re my baby,” she says with a thin, curling smile, “And babies don’t call their mothers by their name, you know. You say _Mamae_.”

“ _Ah-lee_ ,” Fenris insists.

“I know you’ve heard Nanae call me that, but…” she tries.

“Oot-veer,” Fenris counters mulishly.

“Fine,” Aili huffs, giving up the ghost in favor of making another try at the tiny stubborn buttons on her son’s sweater, “Have it your way, you tenacious little creature.”

Fenris pats at her hand consolingly. He is still coming to terms with the unpleasant realization that his body now projects his emotions, and finds that he is not quite able to conceal the hint of pleasure at his victory. Unbidden, the corner of his mouth twitches upwards.

“Is that a smile I see?” Aili beams at him, leaning in perilously close to kissing range.

“ _No_ ,” Fenris asserts, hastily reforming his features into a frown.

“I think it is,” Aili singsongs with an expression of insufferable triumph, creeping her hands forward and tickling him lightly beneath his chin.

Fenris wriggles, trying to escape, and makes a wholly undignified sound. That is…not entirely born of displeasure. Some strange mix of a shriek and a giggle. Aili relents quickly enough, as she always does, and while he is still caught up in being mortified over the discovery of this new weakness, he looks down and sees that his thrashing has knocked a few of her personal items onto the floor.

“Sorry,” he says, with just the slightest hint of a lisp, pointing down at the displaced objects so she will know what he is apologizing for. And that, he realizes, is a word he seems to be using frequently as well. Because he is sorry, even if some part of him knows that his reactions are not entirely his fault. He is sorry to be here. Sorry that he cannot adjust to things as quickly as he would wish. Sorry to be a burden on what seems to be a generally nice group of people who are trying to include him in their family. Not that he ever seems to be held accountable for his transgressions.

This time is no different, as his adopted mother simply lifts him from the dresser and sets him carefully down on her bed. She smiles at him and smooths his hair down a little before turning around and picking up the things he had knocked to the floor. He thinks the air around her is a little sad, though. If he is reading that correctly. He generally tries not to, as it feels strangely invasive, but he supposes it is a skill he will need to acquire in order to thrive in this strange place.

“No harm done,” Aili assures him in a gentle tone, coming back over to sit next to him with what seems to be some sort of headband in her hand, “It was just an accident. Mama is sorry, too. I know you don’t like to be tickled very much.”

“S’okay,” he returns, slightly uncomfortable at this shift in tone. He reaches over and pats her arm reassuringly once or twice. Touching people to console them is another uncharted territory for him, but it always seems to work wonders with his primary caregivers, Aili especially, so he does his best to at least make an effort.

“You’re my good, sweet baby,” she continues, “And I love you very much. Even when you get upset. Mama and Nanae would never hurt you, even if things get broken sometimes.”

Fenris swallows thickly. Something suspiciously like embarrassment prickles up the back of his neck. Possibly tinged with a softer inclination as well. He shifts his weight a little, glancing about for a quick change of topic.

“Pretty,” he declares, gesturing at the object still in Aili’s hand without even really looking at it.

“You like it?” she wonders, holding it out for him to inspect, “Nanae got it for me. They said it was some sort of belated housewarming gift. I told them it was silly, since we both moved in at the same time, and they could hardly get me a better gift than you, but… Well. They’re always doing things like that. Giving things to people. It makes them happy.”

Fenris looks over the thin circlet with a critical eye. It is a somewhat simple design, some swirling organic pattern carved into a pale blonde wood very similar to Aili’s hair. It is sturdy though, and the craftsmanship is obviously very good, from what little he knows of such things. There is no way this was something Uthvir just bought off a shelf in a moment of random generosity. Clearly it is meant to be something…more. It’s no wonder she seems pleased with it.

And yet he’s almost certain he’s never seen Aili actually wearing it. He doubts that she will have thought of the significance of that. But he is certain Uthvir has.

Fenris huffs.

_These two._

“You. On,” he demands, extending it back towards her in one pudgy fist. If he is going to be cooed over, he might as well do something useful with it.

“It’s awfully dressy for a picnic,” she smiles, taking it back from them.

“ _Pretty_ ,” Fenris insists. Aili laughs.

“Alright,” she concedes, “If you think we should have a fancy day out, then I’ll wear it.”

It takes her a little while to get it just right. She pulls her hair free of its usual ponytail, braids part of it back out of her face, and then settles the circlet onto her head. The piece is open at the front, the twining pieces lifting up just slightly, like a set of horns, and framing the bronze markings on her forehead just so. The overall effect seems to be one of softness, with just a hint of some wild, fey creature.

It suits her.

“Pretty,” Fenris commends.

“Thank you, baby,” Aili grins, leaning over and placing a tiny flower pin in his hair, “Now we’re both fancy.”

Fenris sighs in reluctant acceptance, supposing that he more or less asked for that. Aili seems nearly buoyant when she gathers him up in her arms and grabs their basket of supplies as they head out the door, though. So, he figures it is probably worth it.

Uthvir is taking care of some of their duties for the General, but had promised to meet them for their lunch out on the grass as soon as they were done. Fenris does not like being taken out into the city very much, as none of the elves seem to be able to contain themselves in his presence. If he was physically capable, he is certain that he would have broken some of their fingers by now.

But he can also concede, that he would probably lose his mind if he only saw the inside of their rooms until he was big enough to get around on his own again.

Luckily, his parents are sensitive to his needs and, he suspects, neither of them are all that comfortable with being swarmed by an adoring mob themselves. So, the garden they end up in is relatively small, and almost entirely abandoned. Fenris is not sure why. There are quite a few very ugly statues in it, so perhaps it offends some of the other elves of Arlathan’s delicate sensibilities, or some other such ridiculous thing. He’s not about to complain.

Aili sets up the blanket and sets Fenris up with his bottle. She does not eat herself, possibly waiting for their missing family member to arrive. And, since nothing else of import is likely to happen until they get here, he decides that he should practice his other new trick.

Fenris is finally getting the hang of walking again.

There is a lot of falling down involved in the process thus far, but he can almost make it half way across the sitting room by himself now. Aili hovers, naturally, but not so much that he feels smothered. And for that he is grateful. Even to the point where he generally allows her to kiss him when he bumps into something.

He is two thirds of the way through his third crossing of the blanket, with only four falls, when a large hawk descends from the sky and lands in front of him.

Fenris is so shocked, that he sits down rather suddenly on the blanket with a soft _oof_.

“Uthvir,” Aili chides, “What have I said about divebombing people?”

“I am sorry,” the hawk apologizes with Uthvir’s voice, “I have not eaten since very early this morning and it took me longer than expected to find you.”

“What about Fenris?” Aili asks, real concern seeping into her tone, “He’s still getting used to the idea that magic isn’t bad, you know. What if you frightened him?”

At this, they both turn their full attention back to him and simultaneously realize that not only does their son not seem to be scared, but he has pulled himself back onto his feet, and toddled his way over to them.

Fenris stretches out his little hand, waiting. And after a moment of confusion, Uthvir leans their head forward, allowing themselves to be patted gently. Tiny fingers moving in very careful strokes over sleek brown feathers.

Fenris does not know what it means. Or if it means anything. But it almost seems like too much to be a coincidence. To be flung through time and space and somehow find himself in the care of yet another hawk.

He does not know what to make of it.

“Hok,” he burbles out after a few minutes, and it is only then that he realizes that at some point he has started crying. Not like his usual outbursts of rage or frustration, but fat silent tears of nothing more than grief. “ _Hok_.”

“What is a _hok_?” Uthvir asks Aili, sounding vaguely horrified, frozen stiff in uncertainty.

“I don’t know, but change back, quick,” Aili instructs, scooping Fenris up into her arms and cooing at him to distract him while Uthvir shifts back into their normal shape.

“All done,” they inform her a moment later.

“There, see?” Aili asks, turning back around and passing Fenris into their arms, “It’s just Nanae. Nanae isn’t scary, are they?”

Fenris sniffs in reluctant agreement, feeling a bit foolish as he begins to calm back down.

“I am sorry to have scared you, little one,” Uthvir adds for good measure. Fenris pats their chest as a sign of forgiveness, and a bid to be set down again.

“Crisis averted,” Aili grins at them, handing them a meat pie from out of the basket as Uthvir settles Fenris back onto the blanket.

“But only just,” they sigh. They stare at her for half a minute, the food half way to their mouth as something seems to dawn on them. “You… You are wearing the gift I got you.”

“Oh,” she exclaims, as if only just now remembering herself, her cheeks flushing slightly, “Well. I mean, I know it is really too nice for this sort of thing, but Fenris insisted that we dress for the occasion.”

“Pretty,” Fenris notes, giving Uthvir a rather pointed stare.

“I agree,” Uthvir replies, a large smile spreading out across their face, “You look very nice.”

“I have your excellent taste to thank for that, I’m sure,” Aili laughs, sounding a little embarrassed and twisting her fingers in her hair.

“We should go visit the artist who made it sometime,” they continue, “You would like him, I think. They have a son not too much older than Fenris, and he seemed eager to see how the piece would look on you.”

“You mean, you actually had this commissioned for me?” Aili gapes.

“Well…of course I did,” Uthvir says, sounding uncertain again.

“I’ll…make sure I get you something, too,” she fumbles, “For a housewarming present, I mean. It… It might take me awhile, but-”

“You don’t have to do that,” Uthvir insists.

“Kisses!” Fenris suggests loudly. He had honestly never thought that anyone could possibly top Aveline and her copper marigolds when it came to romantic awkwardness, but dammit all if these two weren’t making his old friend seem suave by comparison. It is almost painful to watch.

Aili leans over and obligingly kisses him on the cheek and he groans.

“ _No_.”


	12. A Day in the Life

“Be good for Nanae,” Aili instructs, for what seems like the hundredth time, as she presses another kiss to Fenris’ round cheek.

Fenris huffs, but make no effort to push her away.

Two days, Uthvir thinks. Aili will be gone for two whole days, in order to help deal with an unexpected disaster in Ghilan’nain’s estate. One of her ladies supposedly-finished experiments suffered what Uthvir has only heard described as a ‘catastrophic failure’, which resulted in several floors worth of extensive property damage, and several hidden nests of eggs which Ghilan’nain wishes to have retrieved; and which probably _need_ to be uncovered and removed before they hatch, and render her entire estate a hive of… something or other.

Most of the lady’s followers have been very tight-lipped on the details. But it means that they are running short on hands to perform necessary tasks. So Aili’s leave of absence has been recalled for two days, until more help can be sent for from some of the outlying settlements. It would be an unheard of presumption upon the time of a higher ranking elf with a small baby. Unfortunately, though, Aili is still just a servant, and there is very little Uthvir or even the General can do to contradict Ghilan’nain’s labour managers.

Aili does not seem any more excited about the whole concept than Uthvir or Fenris are.

“Do not bring him _near_ the estate,” she instructs, finally handing Fenris over to them, with one last brush of her hand over the top of his head. “It is much too dangerous there right now.”

“If anything happens, I will send someone to retrieve you instead,” they promise, for the third time.

Aili sighs.

“If he actually manages to walk while I am gone-”

“Growth has been around,” Uthvir reminds her. “It will likely notice and hoard away such a moment.” The spirit has taken an obvious interest in Fenris, who barely tolerates its presence, in turn. But it laps up memories and signs of his development with eager relish, and would probably be ecstatic to share a missed moment with Aili in exchange for some dream or another.

Aili sighs, again. But nods. And then she offers Fenris another brush, and to Uthvir’s surprise squeezes their arm, too, before finally turning towards the door. Quickly. Like she needs to just get it over with, now.

“Be careful,” they remind her, for their own part.

Fenris raises a tiny, pudgy hand, and offers a wave. Aili looks like she almost wants to run back. But she keeps walking, nodding and only calling out another reminder that her parents will be available in the evenings, if Uthvir needs any help.

They linger outside of the door to their chambers until Aili is out of sight.

Fenris looks up at them, then, and lets out one of his little huffs – like he thinks that was much too much fuss over nothing.

Uthvir imagines he will change his mind when naptime rolls around, and ‘Ah-lee’ is not there to tuck him and hum him a lullaby. They brush his cheek, and offer him a smile, anyway. Tiring him out a little is probably a good idea, they think. Distractions. That was what Haninan recommended, anyway, and his advice tends to be useful. When staring down the hallway that Aili has disappeared from no longer seems reasonable, Uthvir heads back inside. Fenris has had his breakfast, even though it is a little early for him; Aili wanted to feed him before she left. So they put him down to crawl around for a bit, and then set about gathering up some of his outdoor toys, and scoop him back up.

“Want to go to the statue garden?” they offer.

“No,” Fenris says, clutching their shoulder and then squirming around a little.

Hmm.

“Want to go to the fountains?” they suggest, instead.

“No,” he repeats, but he does not make his ‘put me down’ gestures, either.

“Want to go to the practice field?” they try.

Fenris considers this. Tiny brow scrunching, tiny fist opening and closing.

“Okay,” he allows.

They he insists on carrying his little grey shovel himself, as Uthvir nods and finally gets them out of the door. It is early enough that they manage to make it out of the tower without much fuss. Fenris winces when they pass through the eluvian, like he usually does. But he has been getting better about it, Uthvir thinks, and they cover his head through the crossroads, until they come out at the tower base. The trip only takes a few minutes. Fenris starts chewing on his shovel handle, and then does that thing where he makes a face, as if wondering why he even did that.

Uthvir does not know, either. But as long as it is not hurting him, he can chew as many shovels as he likes. Or dislikes.

They head for one of the emptier practice fields, this time of the day. A few of the General’s people take note of them, but by now most know better than to simply come up and bother them. Fenris glares at them anyway, which prompts some distant cooing, that only worsens when he turns his head and hides it in Uthvir’s shoulder instead.

Uthvir pats his back.

_Shy baby,_ they think, fondly.

“Here,” is what they say, though, as they claim a free corner of the field, and settle in. Next to the shade of one of the barracks buildings, where there are more decorative plants and a tiny water feature, and a lone dummy intended for precision practice. There are other such dummies more conveniently located, however, if anyone sincerely wants to use one. They settle Fenris by the base of it. “You have at it, little man.”

Fenris huffs. But he still takes up his shovel and, as seems to be him custom, begins determinedly thwacking it against the base of the practice target. Scooching on his bum to get into good range, and then levelling Uthvir with a _look_ , like ‘do not interfere’.

They do not even try, though. Just make sure he settles in alright, and then take the opportunity to do their morning workout, while they keep an eye on him. Squish has already declared him a prodigy warrior in the making, and laid claim to the prospect of teaching him how to wield large weapons. Uthvir will show him how to use others, though, if he keeps up an interest as he gets bigger. Knives and spears and projectiles; and spells, of course.

Spells are a bit of a worry for them, right now. Fenris dislikes magic.

Dorian never disliked magic, so Uthvir does not think that is customary for babies. When he gets bigger, Fenris will have to learn how to control his own, and they hope he is less afraid of it all by then. But they think it might be one of these things that counts as a _parenting challenge,_ and if Fenris is reluctant to use spells, then he will _have_ to know how to defend himself in other ways.

Uthvir will protect him, of course, but when he is older, he will probably want to do more things on his own. He is still very small, after all, and even _now_ he seems annoyed that he cannot just set off under his own power.

They are still in the midst of several stretches when they hear the sound of footsteps approaching.

A glance over reveals that it is Dorian heading their way.

“Good morning!” Dorian greets, brightly.

“ _No_ ,”Fenris offers, scowling and thwacking his practice target a little harder.

Dorian pouts, just a little. But then he rallies himself, smiling at Uthvir and holding up a small basket.

“I brought candied fish sticks,” he offers. “Fresh from Ess’ tavern, in fact, she was making them this morning when Turmoil and I stopped there for breakfast.”

Fenris pauses in his assault, and subjects Dorian to a critical look.

Then he goes back to his ‘training’, but with the air of a toddler who might, perhaps, be persuaded to eat a fish stick or two. If asked very nicely.

Uthvir grins. Fenris likes treats, in fact, though everything he likes, he seems to do so begrudgingly. They ease their way out of their current round of stretches, and nod at Dorian. Extending a hand towards Fenris, who sighs and puts down his little shovel, and lets them scoop him up so they can head over to some of the benches. They settle onto a patch of soft, warm grass beside them, and Dorian spreads out the blanket, and very politely offers Fenris a sweet and sticky strip of cured fish.

Fenris accepts it.

“…Danku,” he grumbles, before settling in to munch on it. Uthvir eyes the sun, rising up past the tower, and extends one of the shade umbrellas attached to the nearest bench, to make certain the Fenris is covered. His skin is sensitive, after all. Or at least that’s the best explanation they have for why he is so skittish about touch, and why certain bath oils and fabrics bother him.

“So,” Dorian says. “Where is Aili?”

“Helping to clean up the mess at Ghilan’nain’s estate,” they explain.

“Ooh,” Dorian replies, making a face. “The ooze monster?”

“Is _that_ what it was?” Uthvir asks. “I have not been able to get any specifics.”

“Mm,” the man offers, while Fenris looks up curiously. “Well, that was the nearest description I have been given, anyway. We passed by the estate this morning, and judging by the… condition… I would say _something_ ooze-like was involved.”

Maybe Uthvir should get some good bath scrubs, before Aili comes back.

“Ah-lee?” Fenris asks, letting out a little breath; sweet treat momentarily forgotten.

“Mama is fine,” Uthvir assures him. “Possibly getting very messy, though.”

Between this and the sewers, life never seems to afford her a lot of opportunities to avoid it, they think. Even Uthvir at least gets to take excursions out into the wilderness. Which, though not _tidy,_ is at least a different sort of mess than the city’s ugly undersides.

Fenris looks somewhat dubious of their claim.

“Do not worry,” Dorian tells him. “The creature is dead, at least. The danger has passed. But if it would make you feel better, Fenris, I could go and check on the estate. I am sure I could manufacture _some_ excuse or another that would give me a reason to stop by.”

Fenris’ brows furrow. And then he reaches over, and smacks a hand determinedly against Uthvir’s leg.

“Oot-Vir,” he says. “Oota go. Go Ah-lee.”

They blink at him.

“Well if _I_ went, who would look after you, hmm?” they wonder, playfully.

It earns them a huff.

“Me,” Fenris says.

“Ah, yes. Of course. Mama would be _thrilled_ to learn I had left you to your own devices,” they reply.

Their son frowns, and gives a dissatisfied munch of his treats, again.

“… _Dinan_ go,” he finally allows.

The fact that Fenris seems set upon calling the General’s own son ‘Death’ is, fortunately, more of a source of amusement to most people than a source of offense. Dorian beams, and then promises that he will go just as soon as he has finished conferring with the General on some matters, and make certain that Aili is not being beset upon by monster ooze eggs.

Uthvir is feeling a little nervous about the whole prospect, in fact, the more that Dorian talks.

But, they promised Aili that they would look after Fenris until she got back. And it is not as if this is a mission, they remind themselves. There will be people at the estate, a lot of them, all with the same entirely official job. She is not crammed into some subterranean passageway or something. And for all that Ghilan’nain’s followers can be as abusive as any towards the lower-ranking among their number, having a child has gained Aili a bit of a buffer of prestige, of sorts. She has a _baby_. And if anyone would care to ever tutor the baby, or interact with the baby, then they will need to be on her good side, because Uthvir definitely did not decide to co-parent with her to secure extra civic points. So it can be presumed that they will take her opinion on things to heart.

Dorian attempts a few more overtures towards Fenris, as is his wont. Fenris accepts them or rejects them with various degrees of grumbling, as is _his._ When he has finished with his sticky treat, then, Uthvir takes him over to one of the outdoor wash basins to clean up his face and hands. Fenris submits to this with a very world-weary sigh, so Uthvir lets him play a little longer after that, bashing more ‘practice targets’ with him and helping him toddle around.

Fenris’ grip is always very tight on their fingers. Determined, but also frustrated. He wants to be running already they, think.

It must be very difficult, to have a body that does not cooperate with the spirit’s wishes. But at least Fenris will have a chance to get taller.

Uthvir feels a rush of fondness, when they must finally pack up for naptime, and indulges with a kiss to the top of their son’s head.

Fenris blinks up at them.

“Whu?” he asks.

Uthvir smiles.

“You are a very good son,” they inform him.

It earns them a puff of surprised happiness. But the good moment does not last, and as Fenris’ face falls a moment later, and a surge of frustration curdles around it all. Uthvir supposes that he is tired, and grumpy, and somewhat consternation by his own emotions, as he often seems to be. They are not really surprised when he starts to hiccough his ways towards tears, and that makes things worse; but it is still something of a wrench. They hold Fenris close, and take him back to their chambers for a nap.

He has trouble settling, as they worried he might.

Uthvir puts him into his soft little nightgown, and slowly paces the rooms with him. Moving, they have found, eases Fenris’ moods. Especially if they pass between rooms, as if he takes comfort in the thought that he is going somewhere, rather than just lying still in his crib. At first he grumbles and fusses. And the he buries his face against Uthvir’s shoulder, and descends into a mess of frustration and sorrow, crying and clutching at their collar until exhaustion and comfort win out, and he finally falls asleep.

Uthvir feels sympathetically tired themselves, after all of that. They settle into the spare bedroom, which they have been slowly converting into a library, of sorts. Aili likes books, as it happens. She does not own any, of course, and has limited access to them. But they are less restricted, and have been slowly accumulated texts – to teach Fenris with, as he gets older, of course – and shelves, and chairs to shove in the corners, and carpets to keep the floors warm. The original bed is still there, in case there is a need for it, but Uthvir is thinking of replacing it with a couch instead, to clear up more space. They choose one of the history texts they are in the process of reading, and settle onto the bed. Gently and carefully arranging Fenris against their chest, and propping up the pillows so that they can rest, and read.

The time passes quietly.

When Fenris wakes up he is tousled and less grumpy, though only a little, it seems. It is time for lunch by then, so Uthvir packs them back up, and makes for the dining hall. They test the waters of Fenris’ sociability; but of all the places where they venture, Fenris seems to have the least amount of trouble with the dining halls. Which are, admittedly, a lot simpler than some other spaces, and have _food,_ and a very clear purpose. If it is too crowded it is still liable to be upsetting. But they are a little later than most of the lunch rush, and Fenris seems to be leaning towards sociability. He puts up with some of their neighbours cooing over him, and even charms an architect at the table opposite theirs into passing him a sweet roll.

Like Aili, Fenris seems to like fruit, and apples. Though this means that Uthvir has to stop him from trying to drink wine every now and then. He has his bottle, instead, and his soft foods, and an unexpected appreciate for spices; though they only let him have the mildest ones.

Sometimes they put a little bit into his milk. He usually grins at them, when they do that, and they find they are very susceptible to his charms.

“Oot-Vir!” he insists, from where they have settled him in their lap. He knocks his bottle pointedly against the table, and they obligingly pour for him, adding a little pinch of warming spices. Fenris watches them, one hand resting on their wrist, radiating satisfaction when they finish securing the nipple back in place and give it to him.

“Ta!” he thanks, and starts drinking.

“Is he still calling you ‘Oot-Vir’? Not _Nanae?”_ one of their neighbours asks. A regulations examiner by the name of Propriety. Uthvir catches her disapproving tone, but just shrugs it off.

“It is cute,” they declare.

Fenris makes a vague sound of objection, and kicks one of his little legs out. Ineffectually. Uthvir catches his foot and gives his toes a pat.

“You should not encourage the habit,” Propriety insists. “Some people might take it as a sign that the child has not really bonded with you. I have already heard talk among a few of the higher ranking elves, of seeing if June cannot be persuaded to give his care over to more _committed_ parents. These sorts of missteps might count against you.”

Fenris stills, and the top of his bottle slides out of his mouth with an audible _pop._ Uthvir is about to retort, but they are distracted by the sudden rush of alarm that emerges from their little son.

“Hey,” they say, bending down to check him over. It does not seem as though he could have bumped himself or anything. Does he know what Propriety meant, they wonder? He can be very perceptive, and the General told them that babies often understand more words than they can say…

Fenris looks up at them with big, frightened eyes.

Uthvir brushes a hand over his head.

“It is okay,” they tell him. “What frightened you, little one? You are alright. No one is going to take you away from Mama and Nanae, it does not matter _what_ you call us. Propriety is just fussing.”

Fenris’ lip trembles, and then his face scrunches up. And that is all the warning Uthvir gets before he picks up his bottle, and _launches_ it at Propriety. Hard enough to dislodge the nipple from the top, and send a spray of milk over the table, before the bottle smacks against the offending elf’s shoulder.

There is a moment of stunned silence.

“No,” Fenris insists, and closes a hand tightly around Uthvir’s sleeve.

The mood cracks, and a raucous stream of laughter starts up. Fenris actually smiles, pleased with himself; and Uthvir finds themselves thinking that he has a good arm, and will do very well when they can start teaching him to use it. Before they remember things like adult civility, and manage to make a halfways convincing apology to Propriety.

“Throwing things at the table is generally frowned upon,” they scold Fenris.

He does not seem overly concerned about it.

But then, apart from Propriety, no one at the table really does. So they can hardly blame him.

After lunch, then, it is time for them to go and visit Serahlin and Adannar. Uthvir has managed to organize some tentative playdates for Fenris and Tonlen, though always with abundant supervision, and mostly just because it is very reassuring to have some experienced (and active) parents to discuss things with. Tonlen is a delicate child, compared to most, but Fenris is never, ever so grumpy or belligerent with him as he is with… almost anyone else.

“Ton’a _baby,”_ Fenris had informed them, the last time they remarked upon it, as if offended by the implication that Fenris – also a baby – would be rude to another child. Despite… being a child.

There is a sort of logic to it, though, Uthvir supposes. And if nothing else, it is heartening to think that he has realized, on some level, that babies deserve to be treated well. Aili’s influence, and caretaking, making a good impression, they think. She does her best to make Fenris feel loved, to emphasize that babies should be looked after and that decent people do not harm them. And it is always captivating to watch her, to see how good she is with him. How utterly she loves him. There is a softness that comes over her, when she holds him, that Uthvir has difficulty looking away from.

They have to change Fenris and bathe him before they go, and he always gets somewhat grumpy after such activities. Uthvir bundles him up, and offers him a distraction in the form of the rabbit he likes to chew on, before putting on the carrier that Aili says he likes best, and taking him through the city. They secure his little green hat over his head, to keep his ears warm, and make sure to dissuade too many people from approaching.

It gets trickier in the areas near to Sylaise’s tower. Sylaise’ followers are accustomed to Tonlen, who is delicate but also enjoys positive attention. They tend to come right up to Uthvir, especially given that they wear June’s vallaslin, and expect to be permitted to cuddle and coo over the baby. And they are not always receptive to Fenris’ puffs of irritation and disapproval, until things have gotten far enough that they turn into outright distress.

Uthvir manages this time, though, insisting that they are in a bit of a hurry and the Fenris needs changing. That works well enough, especially on some of the more frivolous types. By the time they get to Serahlin and Adannar’s home, Fenris is muttering experimental words against the spit-coated ear of his rabbit, and Uthvir is feeling rather accomplished at their deflections.

“Uthvir!” Adannar greets, happily, as he opens the door. “And Fenris! You made it! Come in, come in.”

“Adannar,” Uthvir acknowledges, stepping over the threshold and into the home with a polite nod. “How is everything?”

“Quite well, in fact!” Adannar informs them. “Ileth has received a commendation in his work, and the Lady Sylaise had Serahlen and Tonlen visit her this morning. She has been considering elevating Serahlin to a new post, when she finishes her leave. But it is still only a tentative matter.”

“Oh. Well that is very good news,” Uthvir offers.

“It is a great compliment,” Adannar supplies, which they can take to mean that Serahlin is not certain she would like whatever esteemed new appointment Sylaise has in mind. They worry, for a moment; but then they suppose if it becomes a major issue, there would be more signs of strain. And the house seems warm and content as ever, as Adannar leads them down the hall to where Tonlen is playing with some plush creations that chime at his touch, and Serahlin is chatting with Ileth.

They both greet Uthvir warmly, and Fenris more warmly still. But Uthvir does not take that personally. Fenris is a cute baby, and even cuter when he is visiting the family of Sylaise followers, given how he behaves himself around Tonlen.

Carefully, they maneuver him out of the harness, and onto the floor next to his little friend.

Tonlen smiles happily.

“Fenru!” he greets, batting tiny fists and scooching closer.

Fenris wipes his toy bunny on the front of his shirt, and then lets Tonlen have it when he reaches for it.

“Here, Fenris,” Ileth says, gently, settling down onto the floor with the babies. He plucks up one of the plushes, and offers it to Fenris instead.

Uthvir keeps one eye on the interaction, because the toys are magical. But they are also fairly benign, and Fenris does not seem perturbed as he accepts the offering. Though he lets out the most self-deprecating of sighs after he shoves it into his own mouth, as per usual.

“Sometimes I think Fenris is too clever for his own good,” Serahlin offers. Then she makes a sympathetic sound at Uthvir. “Where is Aili? Do not tell me she got caught up in all of that business at Ghilan’nain’s estate.”

“Sadly, she did…” they admit.

The afternoon goes smoothly, then. Ileth is apparently meant to be heading on his way, but he stays to play with Fenris and Tonlen until their afternoon nap. And then he has to rush out the door to be at his duties on time, although Uthvir thinks he is sorely tempted to stay anyway, and watch his little brother’s face scrunch and relax in the midst of his dreaming. Fenris has trouble settling again, and ends up sitting in Uthvir’s lap, mumbling incoherent baby words and letting out little fits and bursts of unhappiness before he finally drifts off.

“I wonder what happened to him,” Serahlin admits to them, quietly, as the residence around them seems to settle into the softer atmosphere of nap time. They would swear that Adannar has charmed the rooms to just radiate _calm_ whenever it is time for babies to be sleeping. Or possibly that is just the man himself, who has also drifted off, with Tonlen in his arms.

“Fenris?” Uthvir confirms.

Serahlin nods.

“When I think of someone mistreating a baby…” she trails off, tamping back her anger so that it will not disturb the sleeping children.

The official story, of course, is that Fenris’ initial caretakers had him illegally and mistreated him in mysterious-but-obvious ways. Which is possibly the true story, or as near to it as Uthvir could guess. Talk of a serial baby abandoner has not yet arisen, so they are surprised when Serahlin carries on along the track she does.

“I remember when Dorian was found,” she says. “That whole awful story. Being left out there in the wilderness. What if the General had not discovered him?”

She looks very upset by the notion.

Uthvir reaches over, and tentatively pats her shoulder.

“It is my experience that the General is very good at being where she needs to be,” they offer. “And Dorian is all grown up and perfectly happy. Even if he has also been conscripted into cleaning up Ghilan’nain’s estate.”

Serahlin looks a little bewildered, at that, and so they take a moment to explain that Dorian had gone off to investigate. They chat a bit more about the potential disaster – apparently some of Ghilan’nain’s attendants had been seen _covered_ in slime – before Fenris starts to stir a little, and then the conversation dies in favour of letting the babies nap in silence.

Uthvir leaves before dinner, despite invitations to stay. They opt to head over to Aili’s parents’ home, instead. As much as Fenris gets along with the tower’s dining halls, he tends to be even more comfortable in the lower district ones, and the elves there are always especially cheered to see him. It is even less common for them to have babies in their midst, after all. Adhamh and Ina’then are always happy to have their grandson over, and Fenris endures their cuddling and affection with long-suffering sighs and little puffs of happiness and pleasure, that seem to overcome him despite his best efforts to remain suitably aloof.

Uthvir can relate. Aili’s family has been growing on _them,_ too.

The visit also gives them a chance at a break, as Fenris is willing to let his grandfather help him eat and hold him at dinner. Uthvir can stretch their arms and legs a little, and venture out of the hall without worry that he will come to harm or distress. They take a mug of ale with them and do some wandering, and a little light flirting. Though nothing with intent. They have not discussed the prospect of bringing people home with them with Aili, on either end of the equation, and feel strange about it with a baby around anyway. And if they _were_ inclined, they… are, admittedly, still very caught up on Aili herself. Despite their best efforts not to take advantage of the situation.

Not that a night when she is away would be the best time to bed anyone, really. They have to look after Fenris.

And they are not certain if… well…

She wore the tiara that they commissioned for her. A special commission. So perhaps, they think, she is reconsidering their courtship overtures.

They have been debating what kind of move to make next. Another gift? An artistic gesture?

They drift out towards the street, and start up at the shifting colours of the evening sky. Ina’then comes and finds them there.

“Is Fenris alright?” they check, glancing back into the hall.

“Oh, he is quite fine,” she assures them. “Adhamh is giving him mashed apples with brown sugar and cinnamon. Aili used to love it when she was his age. Like mother, like son, I think.”

Uthvir smiles.

“Fenris likes fruits,” they confirm.

Ina’then nods, and then settles against the beam of the hall’s airy entryway. This dining hall skirts the upper levels, and is more open than most; it spills light out towards the streets, that is shadowed by the high wall of Elgar’nan’s outer estate. The barrier serving to ensure that all the brightness and activity does not encroach upon the cultivated aesthetics of the rest of the city. Uthvir recalls when some rogue artist had painted hundreds of flames across the wall in a night; how the General had spun it into a tribute, to keep Elgar’nan from tearing up this same hall in his outrage.

“If you want to court Aili,” Ina’then says. “You had better tell her.”

Uthvir blinks, and freezes for a moment. Their ale millimeters from their lips. They recover, and finish their sipping, before clearing their throat.

“What do you mean?” they ask.

Ina’then huffs, and for a moment, they somehow think that Fenris has taken after _her_ instead. Perhaps through momentary osmosis. Or something in the milk Aili gave him, that first night she smuggled him away.

“Aili is a bright girl, very perceptive and wise beyond her years,” Ina’then tells them. “She is also utterly clueless when someone is flirting with her. Utterly. When she was in her early hundreds, I had no trouble chasing the hyenas and hounds off of her, because she had no idea they were even _pursuing_ her. Half the lower district thinks she is uninterested in romance, and more than a few suitors have believed themselves to be rejected without her consciously rejecting them at all. She did not know they were flirting.”

Uthvir blinks.

Ina’then shrugs.

“And it did not matter much,” she continues. “Aili did not like them anyway. But she likes you. So if you mean to court her, you should tell her, or else she will never figure it out.”

And at that, something – in fact, several somethings – abruptly click into place.

“…Oh,” is all Uthvir manages, feeling unfairly stunned.

Ina’then, to their surprise, reaches over and pats their shoulder.

“Just out of curiosity, how long have you been trying?” she wonders.

“Since… I met her…” they admit.

It earns them a little quirk of a smile. There and then gone again.

“Well. At least you did not give up,” she muses.

They hear the distinctive sound of Fenris making an objection, then, and the moment shifts gears as they head back inside to go and check on their son. He is fine, though. Mostly just upset because Adhamh is making funny faces at him, which has prompted Fenris to alternate between delight and outrage, for some reason. He makes another sound of complaint as his grandfather startles a giggle from him, and then looks up and sees Uthvir.

“Oot-Vir!” he greets, raising his hands. “Appa!”

He is _covered_ in smushed apples and milk, they note.

“Apples indeed,” they confirm, and press a kiss to the top of his head just to make him grumble cutely again.

And Fenris is none too pleased when he realizes he needs to be washed again, too, though this time Uthvir makes do with the little water basin at his grandparents’ house. It is almost dark by the time they head home, and the streets are starting to light with their glow, and with passing spirits, emboldened by the shift towards night. Fenris watches them. Tracking things with his eyes, until it seems to be too much. And then he presses his face up against Uthvir’s neck.

“Ah-lee?” he asks.

“She is coming home tomorrow,” Uthvir tells him.

It earns them a puff of frustration.

“No,” Fenris mutters. But it seems he is expression more of a general dissatisfaction with the situation than anything else. Uthvir pats his back, and rocks him a bit in his sling. They have gotten much better at this, they think. At figuring out what to do, and how to react. But it is still not enough to really fix things for Fenris, most of the time, and there are days when they worry that they are just… _missing_ something.

They almost turn back, to ask Ina’then and Adhamh if they would like to come over and spend the night. But then Fenris reaches a hand up, and closes it around their glass bead necklace. The shining, simple adornment which Aili brought to life with her song; which has stayed bright, on Uthvir, for many nights since. And which has, despite their son’s reluctance towards magic, never seemed to perturb him.

They drop another kiss to his head, and finish carrying him home.

They have barely gotten through the door to their chambers, and are still getting their sling and boots off while Fenris sits on the floor, yanking his hat away, when the door open again.

A _horrific_ scent fills up the chambers.

Uthvir blinks.

Fenris wrinkles his nose.

Aili lets out a ragged breath, as she slumps against the back of the door. Covered head-to-toe in what seems like some kind of dried slime, with streaks of black and blue and grey all across her clothes, and gunk clinging to wherever it seems it could not just flake or rub off in some obvious effort at a rushed cleaning. Her hair is a mess of petrified… _something._ And the odour around her could only be described as a kind of mix between fetid corpse and very expensive cheese.

But there is a furious and beautiful kind of light in her eyes.

“I did it!” she declares, still panting. “I cleaned… that whole… two days… two days but nope, I did it… did it in _one…”_

Uthvir and Fenris glance towards one another, both slightly wide-eyed.

“One!” Aili pants again, raising her hand. “Mamae… came home… early…”

_I love you,_ Uthvir thinks. 

But before they can say it to her – now, when she is covered in slime and filth and exhausted, and looks not a little deranged, and also like she has perhaps been contemplating treason, and _utterly beautiful_ – Fenris sucks in a breath, and then gets up onto his feet.

Uthvir’s own words clog in their throat, as they watch their son stand up on his wavering little legs. Aili freezes, caught, even her exhausted breaths stilling as she stares at their son.

Fenris brow screws up in determination, as he spreads his arms out for balance. And he manages one step, wobbling, his hat discarded on the floor behind him.

“Mama!” he exclaims.

Then he topples.

He lands harmlessly on his bottom, letting out a little ‘oof’, but Aili is already rushing forward. She almost scoops him up before she seems to remember that she is covered in disgusting slime fluid, and then she stops short and literally flaps her arms in distress.

Uthvir lets out a breathless laugh.

“Oh!” Aili says, as her eyes water. “You walked! And you called me Mama! Oh, my baby!”

Fenris looks like he is going to hug her, stench and slime or no, and so Uthvir scoops him up before he can get into contact with whatever-that-is that is on Aili. Mostly because she seems to not want him to touch it.

“That was so good!” They praise. “But we should let Mama have a good scrub before we cuddle her, hmm?”

“Oh, I know!” Aili says, and then _runs_ into the bathroom. Two seconds later, she races it out with a cloth holding back her filthy hair, and another frantically scrubbing off the bottom of her face. She gets it clean enough to lean forward, then, and kiss both of Fenris’ cheeks, while Uthvir holds him. Their baby sighs, but then reaches over to pat her nose.

“I love you,” Aili tells him.

Uthvir’s heart clenches.

And they cannot even begrudge Fenris for stealing the show.


	13. Little by Little

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Serahlin and Tonlen are Scurvaliciousbay's

The sun is just starting to shine through the enchantment on the windows in their sitting room by the time Aili finally gets Fenris to sleep in his crib.

Their son has recently started teething, and between the pain in his gums and his normal troubles fending off bad dreams, neither him nor Aili have gotten a decent amount of rest for the past three days. Uthvir has had somewhat of a reprieve from their typical share of infant care due to an urgent call from the General to do some infiltration work.

There have been some rumors of Falon’Din’s people doing some probably less than legal alterations to the passages beneath his city estate. And besides just wanting to know what he might be up to, there is the very real concern that some of the runes and other little presents that they have planted there over the years might be discovered. The tunnels out there are small and narrow and only Uthvir and the General herself have much hope of navigating them. Well, and Aili, but they both can’t just run off and leave Fenris alone.

Which means that her time has largely been divided between comforting her crying child and worrying herself silly.

But for right now, Uthvir is home, and their son is asleep, and she can finally just…relax.

Aili stumbles into the bathroom with her eyes half closed, and clumsily begins tugging off her sleepwear. That she never actually got to sleep in. But there’s nothing for it now; Fenris will likely be awake again in an hour or so, cranky and hungry and sore, and she’ll give him his little teething ring with the ice enchantment that he had absolutely loathed until he had gotten it into his mouth. Which had taken nearly and entire day of cajoling on her part. He still eyes the thing as though he thinks it might bite him, but as long as he is not actually scared, and it is helping his poor gums, he can glare it into the void as far as she’s concerned.

Once he’s feeling a little better they can go get breakfast in the dining hall and she can make herself the biggest, strongest mug of tea in the history of creation. And hopefully that will carry her through her outing with Serahlin and Tonlen. Which will also tire out Fenris with any luck, so when they get back home in the afternoon, he will actually _want_ to nap. And then finally, _finally_ , she can get some sleep.

She does not realize until she is already sitting in it, that the bath is not entirely empty.

“Good morning,” Uthvir scrapes out in a rough sounding voice. They must be tired, too, she thinks. Which is fair. She knows from experience that crawling through those tunnels isn’t exactly a cakewalk.

Aili mumbles something that is meant to be greeting in the vague direction of Uthvir’s chest. There is something different about it, she is fairly certain, but she’s not sure what. It takes her a solid two minutes of staring at their clavicle to realize that they are not wearing a shirt. Or anything else, for that matter.

She blinks.

Well. That’s…something.

Her brow furrows after a few more moments of contemplating the line of their neck. Their all sort of wet and glistening, damp locks of hair hanging about their face and sticking to their skin a little. It makes them look…soft. Inviting. Like maybe she could just lean forward a little bit, until her nose is pressed up somewhere beneath their ear and she can just sort of…sprawl on them.

She can smell the soap they used. The same scent that tends to linger on the bed in the reading room. They fall asleep in there sometimes, book in hand. And then when she comes in later to get a book of her own, or to read to Fenris, she can still smell them on the pillows, and it seems like they are there, even when they are away on duty. 

She shakes her head dismissively. Uthvir does not generally seem to mind her sprawling on them, usually due to tipsiness or incapacitation. And they are terrific for hugs. Only Squish gives better hugs, probably, she thinks. But naked hugs are probably taking things a bit far, even for them. Especially naked sprawly hugs with nuzzling and possibly even a few nips at their ears because…because…

What?

“Is something wrong?” Uthvir wonders.

“No, I…” she fumbles, confused, “Shouldn’t…you still be asleep?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” they point out, “It takes some time to get to the entrance we are using for this mission, and the General wanted to meet in her office for a brief review before we head out. …Did you even go to bed?”

“I got _into_ bed at some point, if that’s what you mean,” she sighs wearily.

“It is not,” they frown at her, “You should send a message to Serahlin, and tell her that you need to reschedule. You are going to pass out walking down the street at this rate.”

“S’fine,” she insists, waving them off and shifting a little in the tub. Her knee knocks against something, and it takes her half a moment to realize that what she bumped must have been Uthvir’s leg. They are really sort of tangled up in here, and she is mildly impressed that she managed not to step on them when she got in. “I gotta get Fenris some new leggings. He’s getting so long already. He’s gonna shoot up like a tree before we know it. Sweet lanky baby is gonna be tall, like his grandpa.”

She giggles, and Uthvir gives her an incredulous look.

“The vendors will still be there tomorrow,” Uthvir sighs, “I will speak to Haninan about coming by to look after Fenris for a few hours, so you can get some sleep.”

“Aw, you don’t have to do that,” she assures them, reaching over and patting their arm, “I can handle it, really. I…I’m…I’m a good mama.”

Uthvir’s face falls, brow furrowing in concern.

“Of course you are,” they assure her, placing their hand on top of hers. Apparently, she had never removed it from their arm. Huh. “No one who has ever seen you with Fenris would ever think you were not a good mother. An excellent mother, in fact. The best.”

“Really?” she blinks, slightly stunned, even despite her current lack of coherency.

“Really,” they affirm. They lean a bit closer to her, and the smell of their soap seems to sharpen in her nose as she pulls in a deep gulp of air. And it suddenly strikes her how long their eyelashes are.

Fenris begins crying from his bedroom.

“I will get him,” Uthvir offers after a long pause, sounding strangely defeated, “You stay here and finish your bath.”

“But-” Aili tries halfheartedly.

“Stay,” Uthvir insists, carefully untangling their legs from her own and getting up out of the tub.

The view is…nice.

“Pretty thighs,” she burbles, sinking further into the water and closing her eyelids.

“What?” Uthvir asks, turning back to her with a surprised expression.

Aili blinks, realizes what she just said, and wonders how quickly she could manage to drown herself.

“I said…uh…gritty eyes?” she stammers, “They feel crusty because…I haven’t slept.”

“Well…” Uthvir replies, not looking like they completely believe her, “Just…don’t pass out in the bathing pool.”

By the time Uthvir gets Fenris set up in his little gated play area with his teething ring and come back to check on Aili, she is completely passed out in the bathing pool.

Uthvir heaves a weary sigh. The General will not be happy that they will be leaving later than intended, but there is not much to be done when there is a small child and his unconscious mother to look after. They carefully scoop her up out of the warm water and do their best to towel her off.

She is floppy and boneless, and somehow still gets her arms up around their shoulders. Clingy and insistent. Mumbling nonsense under her breath all the while.

Uthvir grips the towel around her until their knuckles turn white.

“You are lucky you did not die,” the inform her in a hoarse tone, shifting her into their arms so they can carry her to her bedroom.

“I don’t want any pie,” Aili slurs into their chest.

They snort in resigned amusement, toting her into her bed chambers and tucking her in under the covers.

“I’ll send a runner, and Haninan will be here soon,” they inform her, reaching back over to smooth some of her hair out of her face. She sighs in contentment, so they don’t see the harm in continuing for a few more moments.

“I’m sure he does love the moon,” she hums in agreement. Uthvir laughs.

“Well, I love y- …your…hair,” they finish lamely.

Aili’s brows furrow.

They hold their breath.

“I don’t wanna kiss a bear,” she asserts blearily.

Uthvir sighs.


	14. Good Babies

Tonlen’s never met another baby before! So when Memae says that there’s another baby coming over, he’s a little confused. At first he thinks that it means Memae is bringing home another brother, like Ileth. But then nice Ee-lee and Ubear come over and they have Fenrus. 

Fenrus is a baby like Tonlen but he also isn’t. He gets very grumpy with himself, Tonlen thinks. He doesn’t know why he doesn’t want to chew on the best pink toy Memae got him, because it’s a very nice toy to chew on, but Fenrus doesn’t want to. 

Tonlen doesn’t really understand that much for the first two visitors and he asks if Fenrus is his brother. He is not. But he’s a baby. Like Tonlen.

“Fenris is Aili and Uthvir’s son, you are Serahlin and Adannar’s son,” Memae explains, pointing to herself when she says ‘Serahlin’ and to Papae when she says ‘Adannar.’

“Aili is Fenris’s mamae and Uthvir is Fenris’s nanae,” she continues and Tonlen thinks for a moment.

“Uthvir my nanae too?”

“No, they’re Fenris’s nanae.”

His face scrunches up and he tries to work it out. It gets easier the more Fenris visits though and Tonlen can see that Fenris clearly is the son to Ee-lee and Ubear but not to Tonlen’s memae and papae. 

On the fourth visit, Tonlen practically has it down and it doesn’t bother him anymore anyways. Memae says Fenris is what is called a ‘friend’ and that it’s good to have friends. Friends play with each other and have each other’s backs. Tonlen hugged Fenris’s back then, because that’s what friends do. Fenris jumped a bit but then turned and patted Tonlen’s head.

“Good baby.”

The grownups laughed at that. 

The fifth visit has Tonlen in a rare mood. He wants to feel pretty. He hasn’t felt pretty all week because his chest has hurt. But it isn’t hurting now and he wants to be pretty and for Memae to be pretty and Papae and Fenris and everything. 

So Tonlen pulls out all of his clothes and jewelry and begins to go through it all, putting on as much glittery stuff as possible. At point he even dumps a small tub of glitter over his head so his hair will be shiny. Like Melarue’s. Melarue always has shiny hair. 

He shows his treasures to Fenris who doesn’t seem very impressed. He points to the books on the shelf and Tonlen frowns.

“Dress up!” He declares and Fenris frowns. 

Tonlen goes into a coughing fit then, though, so it doesn’t really matter that Fenris doesn’t want to play dress up. Memae rushes in and checks over him, taking off his clothes to feel his chest better. 

“What if healing isn’t so bad for him?” Memae whispers to Papae and all the adults seem to consider it for a moment before Tonlen goes back to normal. He wriggles out of Memae’s grasp and pulls his clothes back on.

“No nakey!”

He holds up a bright cyan dress covered in sparkles that Ileth bought for Tonlen. Fenris considers it a moment before sighing and taking the dress. 

“Yaay dress up!” Tonlen claps and tries to help Fenris put the dress on. Tonlen puts a crown on Fenris and gives him lots and lots of bracelets that _match_ because matching is very important! Memae says so. Tonlen gives Fenris anklets too, and rings and a few necklaces because it’s all really pretty. 

“Why so much,” Fenris asks and Tonlen shrugs.

“Because pretty?” 

Fenris sighs again and Tonlen thinks he looks pretty enough now. They march out into the main living area and Tonlen goes, “Ta da!” for effect.

Memae gasps and Papae claps while Ee-lee and Ubear stare. 

“We pretty!” Tonlen declares and Fenris looks away. Doesn’t he like it? 

Tonlen sighs and takes the crown off, maybe that’ll help. Sometimes crowns hurt his ears, maybe they’re hurting Fenris’s. Fenris pats Tonlen’s head and Tonlen giggles, reaching to pat Fenris’s.

Fenris is a good baby too. 


	15. Portrait of a Family

The first portrait artist they commission ends up being unacceptable.

She is reputable enough, a servant of June well into her fifth century, with many family portraits to her credit. Including one done of Dorian, which is a large part of the reason why Uthvir selects her. She is somewhat beyond their usual commission range, but Uthvir is given to the understanding that babies are meant to be splurged upon, and this seems more than reasonable to them. Fenris is very cute; they would like to preserve the image of him at this stage.

Unfortunately, the issues with portrait artist become apparent fairly early on. She tuts over Fenris’ lack of adornments, and attempts to fit him with a small circlet, which Fenris does not like and which Aili objects to. The artist only backs off when Uthvir adds their voice to objections, however, and then with the air of someone tolerating over-indulgent parents. She insists upon casting several spells, which upset Fenris further, and then attempts to get Aili to leave him sitting on the little velvet posing platform by himself, even though he is clearly still upset.

“He will be fine! I know how to get a baby to smile,” the woman insists.

Aili does not relinquish Fenris, however, and when the artist actually _reaches_ for Fenris, as if it to pull him away from her, Uthvir decides enough is enough.

“I am rescinding the commission,” they announce. “Thank you for your time.” They would be sharper - and are tempted to be - but technically, the woman outranks them, and while they do not think it would necessarily go all _that_ badly for them in this particular case, they try and make it a point not to needlessly antagonize high-ranking elves.

The woman takes offence, just the same, of course. But Uthvir can only feel relief when they finally get Aili and Fenris away from the studio. It takes the entirety of the trip back to the tower for Fenris to loosen his deathgrip on Aili’s collar, and he does that awful thing where he cries and then seems to get mad about the crying and makes the air around himself curl almost _painfully_ in upset.

“I know, I know, you are alright, little one,” Aili croons at him, walking and rocking him through the halls of their chambers, while Uthvir gets some formula prepared for him, in hopes the distraction will help. They hold Fenris for just long enough for Aili to change out of the clothes she rented for the portrait sitting, and their son blinks up at them with watery eyes; mouth screwed tightly against his tears, as if he is trying his very hardest to avoid crying anymore.

But he does not outlast the impulse, and before Aili comes back, his little voice cracks and his fists ball, as his face scrunches up. Puffs of miserable frustration whirling around him.

Uthvir rocks him, and tries to make the same kinds of soothing noises that Aili does.

In the end, though, the bottle is the best bet, as Fenris latches onto it and shoves it into his mouth as if he is just as eager as everyone else to find something else for him to do. He cries as he drinks, and it ends up making him uncomfortably gassy in the aftermath. But eventually, he burps, and settles, and Uthvir and Aili both tuck him in together, doing their level best to make sure his room and crib are perfectly soothing and safe.

When they make their way back out into the hall, it feels like a storm just bowled over them.

“…Sorry,” Aili offers, quietly, as she slumps against the wall.

Uthvir shakes their head.

“No, that was my fault,” they insist. “I should have asked more questions about her process.” Dorian had been prone to fits of upset and melancholy and frustration as a child, certainly, but he had also very much enjoyed magic, and playing dress-up, and having pretty, sparkly things offered to him at every turn. 

They should have guessed that an artist who got along well with him might not be equally suitable for Fenris.

“Can she get you into trouble?” Aili wonders.

They shake their head.

“She might complain, but Fenris is a baby. It is only to be expected that we accommodate his needs before hers,” they assure her. “If she kicks up a fuss, enough people will take our side to keep it from becoming too great of an issue.”

There is a soft sound from the nursery, then, and Uthvir lowers their voice, recollecting themselves. They nod towards the sitting room, after the sound fails to rise into the crescendo of more crying. Aili nods back, and they go together, and rather vaguely discuss the matter some more. Uthvir knows of a few other artists, but honestly is not sure if any of them would be able to accommodate Fenris; or if the whole situation would now be traumatizing to him, no matter the painter.

Aili listens, and looks exhausted. And after a few minutes, leans against their shoulder.

Uthvir tries to ignore the fact that they want to press a kiss to the top of her head.

“I only had one portrait done, and I was about… four? I think I was four when my parents got it done,” she explains. “One of my father’s friends made it. I think it might still be out there, somewhere, in one of Ghilan’nain’s storage vaults. Or maybe it got incinerated. I never felt particularly hard done by over not having it, though.”

They shift their arm around a little, and venture a hand on her shoulder.

“Do your parents?” they wonder.

She pauses, at that. Uthvir has no portraits of a childhood that never existed, of course. There are paintings of Glory, but… that is different, of course. Uthvir does not know if the are still out there, in Falon’Din’s possession, but the prospect does not bring them any comfort.

“…Maybe?” Aili concedes, after a moment. Then she sighs. “We can always wait until Fenris is older, too. That might be easier?”

Uthvir nods, but still considers. 

Though they doubt she intended it, the mention of Aili’s father’s friend doing her first (possibly only?) childhood portrait puts a notion in their head. They ask around, somewhat, not quite being loud about it - they would not want a replacement commission to direct the ire of the jilted artisan onto anyone too low-ranking or closely affiliated with such circles to suffer from it - before they manage to find their solution.

It happens unexpectedly, while they are over visiting with Serahlin and Adannar and Tonlen.

Adannar has a rash of new commissions, courtesy of a new attendant to Sylaise who is, it seems, absolutely _enamoured_ with Adannar’s craftsmanship. And judging by the tone of Serahlin’s voice when she explains the situation, possibly a little too enamoured with _Adannar_ for her liking as well. Though the former Joy spirit quite plainly only has eyes for his beloved, so Uthvir doubts the charmed attendant will get very far, if they imagine a bevy of commissions will turn his head.

It is still lucrative work, anyway, but it means that Adannar is spending more of his time at it, even as he tries to stay at home to be with Serahlin and Tonlen.

“It is good to have some extra credit,” he admits to Uthvir, however, when the two end up in his study, as Tonlen naps on Uthvir’s shoulder, and Adannar takes the opportunity to finish some sketched designs he needs done for a consultation tomorrow. “Ileth is doing very well, but Serahlin worries about him having quarters in the Pleasure District. There is a housing segment that has a few available apartments just between it and the market instead, but we would need more funds to comfortably acquire one. Ileth has no idea, and it may not happen, but… I would rather the option was available for him, if it ends up being the best thing.”

Uthvir nods in understanding, as Adannar looks at Tonlen, and his gaze softens considerably. He reaches over to brush a hand across his son’s tiny head. Uthvir make a slight gesture, offering to hand him back, but Adannar sucks in a breath and turns to his sketches instead.

“This should only take a few minutes,” he asserts. “I was just waiting on one last idea to round the concepts out, and I think I have it now.”

Uthvir watches with interest as his slim piece of charcoal flies across the pages. Adannar’s sketches are very deft. They spy signs of artistic training beyond a jeweller’s handiwork in the motions. A covert glance at some of his other sketches reveals that Adannar has a habit of embellishing his sketches beyond just the jewellery. They spy hints of Serahlin’s countenance in most of his models, but there is also some child jewellery, and they recognize Tonlen and even Fenris’ little face in some of the vague ‘infant’ models.

“Do you paint?” Uthvir wonders.

Adannar pauses, just a little, in his motions.

“Hm?” he says, blinking, before he turns back to his paper. “Um, somewhat? It is a pretty standard artistic skill in relation to a lot of others, so, most jewellers and tailors know to paint as well as sketch. Helps to articulate the concepts in the mind.”

They nod, in turn, and shift Tonlen a little, as he snuffs against their shoulder. Serahlin and Aili have Fenris; the two were getting along, but then Fenris had a little upset, and Serahlin and Adannar were worried it might start Tonlen on a crying fit - which often exhausted him much too much - so they split, for the moment. They hope Fenris is calming down well enough.

“Would you ever accept a portrait commission?” they wonder.

Adannar chuckles.

“Why would I get one?” he counters. “My skills are decent, but nothing exceptional in that discipline.”

“A friend might ask,” Uthvir reasons.

“Well, if it was for a friend, I doubt I would charge,” Adannar says, still too distracted to really seem aware of what they are driving at. He makes a few more quick strokes on the page, defining the large curve of what seems to be some kind of pendant, and then adds a scrawling note that Uthvir would consider barely decipherable in the corner.

“What if your friend felt it was only fair to pay you for the honour, though?” they ask.

“Then I suppose we would have to debate it,” Adannar says, and then blinks, as he suddenly seems to realize that they have shown an oddly specific interest in this topic.

“Why?” he wonders.

Uthvir glances back towards the hall. They cannot hear crying, at least.

“Fenris’ portrait commission did not go well,” they remind him.

He nods, frowning. They are not surprised; though Serahlin had been more vocal in her assurances that the portrait artist had done everything incorrectly and more than deserved to be let go, Adannar had not seemed at all inclined to disagree.

“I do not think he would take well to any strange attempting a similar thing,” they reason. “Even if we found someone more considerate of his sensitivities. But if it was someone he already knew, and was used to spending time around… he might not even realize that anything similar was going on in the first place.”

Realization dawns, and Adannar comes up short, for a moment.

“You want _me_ to do Fenris’ baby portrait?” he asks. “Oh, but… are you certain? I mean, it sounds like a lovely project, but as I said my skills are hardly exceptional, and this _is_ his first portrait.”

Uthvir considers, but the more they do, the more they like the idea.

“I think it would be nice,” they determine. “When Aili was small, her portrait was done by a family friend. We do not need it to be fancy, to be honest; just so long as it looks like him, that would be good enough. And it would mean more, because it would come from someone who knows him and care about him.”

Adannar swallows, and then looks at Tonlen again. 

His eyes get a bit wet.

“Well… if that is how you feel about it, I think I would be honoured,” he says.

Uthvir grins.

And then they get to the subject of payment, and they have never in their life had to work so hard to convince a man who, moments before, asserted his need for funding, that he ought to accept some from them.

In the end, however, the second portrait artist they commission for Fenris’ first family portrait works out much better than the first. They end up going on a picnic, in only slightly-fancier-than-ordinary wear, with Serahlin and Adannar and Tonlen and Ileth, bringing along fresh fruit and toys and a few games to help even the adults pass the time. Adannar also brings a large sketch pad and some tablets for securing some reference images, and Fenris does, indeed, scarcely notice anything odd about it. Serahlin very gently manages to get a small star-shaped hairclip onto him, which he endures with only a slight scrunching of his nose. Tonlen is wearing at least four of the same kind, though, so he seems willing to accept that just the one is not so bad.

He does seem to get a little suspicious when Aili scoops him up after some play time, and Uthvir sits with the two of them in front of Adannar for a while. But apart from some narrow looks, he offers no objections, or upset; and when Ileth starts talking about his latest work mishaps, he listens with interest.

When they pack up to go, Aili is beaming.

“I think this was a good idea,” she declares, thrilled over Adannar’s sketches. Uthvir finds they quite like them, too.

The artist of the hour pinks a little at the enthusiasm.

“At least wait until you have seen the finished project,” he advises. “You may change your mind.”

Aili shakes her head, though.

“I think good days are better than paintings anyway,” she declares. “Paintings just capture memories, but good days _make_ them. And this was a lot of fun.”

Uthvir looks at her amazement for a moment. Wondering at her insight, until Tonlen starts to fuss. And then the moment passes, and it becomes clear that the two families should head back, to make certain all little elves are able to get their rest, and all the big ones can go back to their duties.

Before they leave, though, Fenris reaches over towards Adannar; twisting a bit in Aili’s arms, and patting the man on the shoulder.

“Ad’na,” he offers.

The smile he gets in return is enormous; though he grumbles a little at the kiss deposited on his head.

“See you again soon, little one,” Adannar tells him.

“Ba,” Fenris offers, to the amusement of them all.

When the portrait comes, Uthvir thinks, it is absolutely perfect. Perhaps not in the sense of suiting current trends, or the kind of high art generally deemed fit to grace public reception halls. But they do not think they would have wanted it to be that sort of thing, either. A piece more concerned with its environment than with its subject. Fenris has a mildly suspicious expression, and Aili is smiling, and Uthvir looks… surprisingly soft themselves, and they wonder if that is actually a face they make.

Aili sighs contentedly at the portrait.

“Perfect,” she says, in agreement with their unvoiced assessment.

They hang it in Fenris’ room.


	16. Peas in a Pod

Aili’s experience with motherhood thus far has been comparable to sprinting up a long flight of stairs blindfolded, while also juggling a set of flaming torches and reciting historical ballads backwards.

Still, she thinks that she would not trade this for anything.

It took a few months of adjustment on everyone’s part, but now things seem to be settling into an almost comfortable rhythm. It still feels odd some days though, to wake up in a bedroom that is more spacious than the whole of her living quarters in the Lower City, and walk into her son’s nursery, which is just as big, and carry him into their little garden area so he can watch the enchantment made to emulate the sky as she feeds him his breakfast. And then he can play in the sitting room for a while if he wants, or they can pick out a book in the reading room, or she can clean him up in their own private bathroom before they go out to explore the city.

It is just…so much.

So much space.

When she was little, and had outgrown her crib, her parents did not have enough room to put in a bed for her. So, she had spent several years sleeping all curled together on a single large bed instead. Like peas in a pod. Arms and legs tangled up in one continuous embrace, safe and warm. 

Eventually, she had gotten too big for that as well, and her mother had to go and put her foot down with the requisition’s manager about adding a bedroom for her to their quarters. And Aili had _hated_ it. Her new room had felt huge and empty and dark. She felt abandoned and out of place and ostracized, and she had cried about it every night for a solid week.

Her new home in June’s tower feels a bit like that sometimes, when she actually gets half a moment to even think about such things. Like this whole place and everyone in it is some huge mechanical beast made of screws and gears and cogs all working together, and she just…doesn’t quite fit. This is Uthvir’s place, with rooms and luxuries that suit their status, and now it is their son’s place as well. When he gets older, Fenris will be mid-ranking, or even higher, if he cares to reach for such things, and he will be able to live in the sort of comforts that he is accustomed to. As it should be. And Aili…

She will be sent back to the Lower City, most likely. Back to her little room on the top floor of a tall gray building with her one window looking out in the general direction of where her son is. She could probably even see the tower if she climbed up onto her roof. Which is probably as close as she is going to get to seeing him, most days. Not that she would begrudge him the opportunities for a higher position and, most likely, a better life than she has, but…

There are times when he is napping, and she is in a different room taking care of something else, and she finds herself missing him. She misses his discontented burbling and the way the two little dark smudges of his brows furrow when he gazes at something intently. How surprised he sounds when he laughs at something. The rare magic of his smiles.

There is time, she knows. Aili will have two and a half decades of watching him grow and caring for him and seeing him almost every day. Helping him with his studies and encouraging him in whatever path he chooses to carve for himself. Smoothing the way for him where she can. And yet, she thinks that time will pass all too quickly. Already, he seems so set on breaking free of his dependence on them. So anxious to be running and climbing and reaching things through his own power.

Which is why she is just going to have to milk whatever time she has with him for all it is worth, before he figures out how to get along without her or his nanae.

One of the stranger bonding activities their son seems to enjoy is going to the practice field, and one such morning Fenris is dutifully whacking away at a dummy in a somewhat secluded corner with his little shovel, Uthvir is sparring with Squish and helping a few of the younger scouts with their technique, and Aili…

Aili is trying her level best to improve her archery.

She is not bad at it precisely, but there had never been much of an opportunity for practice with her normal regimen of duties. And, to be perfectly frank, she would vastly prefer a blade. Her skill with a dagger is passable, but she hasn’t had training with anything larger. Uthvir would probably help her if she asked, but they are busy at the moment, and someone needs to have enough focus to spare to ensure that Fenris does not hurt himself.

It is a bit strange that a child his age seems so intent on the idea of training. Or at least pretending to train. Perhaps, being so fiercely set on being able to achieve his own physical independence, he had seen the other fighters building their own prowess and assumed that might be the quickest means to an end. Aili had been worried he would injure himself at first, but he seems to know what he is about, and outside of rubbing his palms a little sore, he never seems to be any worse for wear afterwards. 

Her own training is not nearly so satisfactory. Her hands are raw and the inside of her forearm smarts from where she keeps overextending it in her stance. She has only managed to hit the bullseye a handful of times, but at least she generally tends to hit some part of the target. With a bit more time and practice, she could be a fairly good shot. And, if nothing else, it should help build up her strength in her arms and back, which will make toting babies and hauling injured Uthvirs out of trouble that much easier.

Aili heads down to collect her arrows for another round, and casts an eye over at Fenris to see whether or not he is beginning to get tired.

Another elf walks past her. A warrior bearing Sylaise’s markings. There is nothing of any particular interest in this corner of the training grounds. Just a bench and a wash basin and the one lone dummy for precision practice.

And her son.

“Wait!” she calls out, but their stride is sure and quick, purposeful, and she is farther away than she might have been if she had still been shooting instead of setting up for a new round. Most of June’s people know better than to bother Fenris by now, but the followers of other evanruis, especially high-ranking ones, always seem to think they have the right to fawn over him as they like. “Stop! Please, he doesn’t like to be touched.”

“We’re just having a good natured chat, aren’t we, little man?” the stranger asks, crouching down next to Fenris.

“No,” he answers curtly, pausing his assault on the practice dummy just long enough to scowl at the intruder.

“Hey now, don’t be like that,” they say, still smiling despite the growing hostility emanating from both the child in front of them and his hastily approaching caretaker, “My name is Telfanim. You’ve got a pretty impressive swing there; do you want to be a warrior when you grow up? I could help with that, you know.”

“ _No_ ,” Fenris repeats, brandishing his little shovel at them menacingly. Telfanim laughs in delight as Aili finally trots over to their side.

“I’m sorry, but my son is uncomfortable around people he doesn’t know,” she tries, not wanting to seem rude. The quality of their armor suggests that they are likely one of Sylaise’s favored, and they could probably make life extremely difficult for her and Uthvir if they felt like it. Possibly even for Fenris, if they are the sort to hold a grudge.

“There is no need to apologize,” Telfanim says smilingly, clearly undaunted, “He just has to get used to me, that’s all. He’s that baby with the bad parents, right? The one the General brought back to Arlathan?”

“His name is Fenris,” Aili supplies with a frown, edging forward to gather up her child and hopefully beat a hasty and inconspicuous retreat from this whole situation.

“Fenris, huh?” Telfanim muses, plucking him up and away from both his practice dummy and his mother’s reaching arms and slowly walking towards the other end of the field, “How would you like to go look at the weapons racks with me, little man? You can tell me which one you like best.”

“No!” Fenris objects vehemently, squirming in their arms and doing his best to whack them with his shovel, “Want down!”

“Give him to me,” Aili demands striding after them, her civility seeping away at the sight of her child’s distress. He is only radiating unhappiness for the time being, and not outright fear, so there is still some room for a shred of calm. But not much. “He doesn’t want to go with you. And even if he did, _I_ don’t want him to go with you. He’s too young to be around real weapons. He could hurt himself.” 

Telfanim makes a face at her, continuing to move away from her, keeping just out of reach.

“Don’t be so stingy,” they say with the first hint of a bite to their tone, “He belongs to one of the General’s people, right? I was sparring with her earlier this morning, she won’t mind if I play with him. Besides, you’re just a servant, aren’t you? You probably only got asked to co-parent so there’d be someone else to watch him when his real parent had to work. Your job is to babysit, but you don’t need to horde him away from everyone else whenever they’re busy. You won’t get in trouble if I hold him for a while.”

“Listen, you-” but that is as far as she gets before they start walking off again, this time in the direction of the eluvian that leads back into the tower.

Aili curses under her breath. She can’t just tackle them to the ground or throw something at him without putting Fenris in the line of fire. Usually magic would be her first resort in such an instance anyway, since she doesn’t have much chance of physically overpowering one of Sylaise’s best fighters, but she doesn’t want to traumatize her son any more than necessary to get him out of danger.

“Ah-lee?” Fenris calls uncertainly, reaching back for her over Telfanim’s shoulder, the first little curl of fear spiraling out towards her.

Her jaw clenches. Right.

“I said, _stop!_ ” she snarls, shooting a blast of ice at their feet, freezing them to the ground.

Fenris makes a startled sound of dismay at the flash of the spell, but he seems more surprised than anything. For their part, Telfanfim nearly tips over onto their backside, pilfered infant and all. They manage to catch themselves in time, however, and shoot Aili a scathing look over their shoulder.

“Attacking someone holding a child?” they sneer, “Your superiors won’t be happy to hear that. Who knows, maybe I should see if someone in June’s upper ranks is interested in offering a petition to counter yours. Clearly, this is more than you can handle.”

Telfanim waves a hand, summoning the heat required to thaw their frozen feet, the glowing light of the spellwork dancing over the face of the child in their arms.

Fenris _screams_. Blind terror sweeping out of him like the swell of a huge crashing wave. The whole of his little body trembling like a leaf.

“ _MAMA!_ ”

Aili closes the distance between them in a flash. In one great bounding leap, moving on instinct more than anything else. Shifting into the shape of a fox in mid-air. Suddenly built of claws and fur and fury.

She sinks her teeth deep into the meat of Telfanim’s arm.

They let out a pained yelp and try to shake her off, but there is not much they can do without relinquishing their hold on Fenris.

“What is going on here?”

She turns her gaze as much as she can without loosening her grip on the attempted kidnapper, and sees that Uthvir and Squish have come to investigate the source of all the distress. Along with what appears to be every other elf in the training grounds. All of them solemn and stony-faced and gripping their weapons with varying degrees of agitation.

“Give me my son,” Uthvir says coldly, stepping forward and holding their arms out expectantly.

Fenris is still crying hard enough to verge on full blown hysteria. Desire looks as though she is about one wrong move away from planting her axe between Telfanim’s eyes. They gulp thickly, and pass the child back to their parent without further protestation.

As soon as Fenris is safely in his nanae’s care, Aili surrenders her grip on Telfanim’s arm. Dropping to the ground and scampering out of attack range before the warrior can finish thawing the ice around their legs. She bares her teeth at them again briefly, before shifting back into an elf at Uthvir’s side.

Aili reaches out for her son, who is still sobbing somewhere in the vicinity of Uthivr’s neck. He flinches away from her, a little burst of fear resurfacing again, and she draws away. Her expression crumbles.

It seems to be enough for Telfanim to regain a bit of their confidence.

“She mauled me,” they point out with a hint of a sneer, “Is that really the sort of person you want around your child?”

“Fenris is just as much Aili’s son as he is mine,” Uthvir says firmly, “And I am fairly certain that every mother I have met would be willing to bite someone to keep their child from harm.” 

“I am certain the General would be thrilled to hear that you think she would gnaw on someone’s arm like a savage,” Telfanim scoffs.

“Why don’t you go ask her and see?” Uthvir suggests.

“ _Now_ ,” Squish advises, “While you still can.”

~

Aili spends a solid hour being talked down to by Propriety and a few other regulations managers in a small office while sitting in a small chair, feeling very much like a naughty child who did something inappropriate at the dinner table. But at least things turned out more or less in her favor. It was deemed that she was acting in defense of her child, so the fact that she attempted to brutalize one of Sylaise’s highest ranking followers is at least somewhat pardonable. She’ll likely have to do some menial unpleasant labor in the near future. Mucking out stables or something equally as pleasant, depending on how affronted Sylaise decides to be about the whole ordeal. On the brighter side of things, Telfanim has been banned from the tower indefinitely, unless invited in some official capacity by June or as part of his lady’s retinue.

It is quiet when she returns to their rooms. Uthvir had gotten permission to postpone a few of the duties they were meant to see to this afternoon in order to look after Fenris, due to his recent upset, and they should be here. Somewhere.

She searches their rooms with slow cautious steps, trying to keep quiet in the likely event that their son is napping.

When she finally makes it to the reading room, she opens the door slightly and peeks her head through to see Uthvir lounging on the pillows of the bed they still haven’t moved out yet, book in hand. Fenris is sprawled across their chest, eyes closed, one fist shoved into his mouth. They look almost serene, and she would hate to wake them if they are sleeping peacefully. 

Aili shifts back into her fox shape and slips in through the doorway on silent nimble paws. She lightly hops onto the edge of the mattress and scoots her way up to check on her son.

“He’s sleeping,” Uthvir whispers, startling her a bit.

“How is he?” she asks, ears drooping as she continues to gaze at his face, “He was so frightened.”

“I think he is alright,” Uthvir tells her, “He seemed to calm down fairly quickly as soon as I got him home. I do not know if he will be eager to return to the training grounds after this, though.”

“I should have stayed closer to him,” she whimpers, “This never would have happened if I-”

“You were close enough to save him,” Uthvir points out softly, “And I do not think any of us expected someone in June’s own tower to attempt to make off with him. It is a rather stupid plan, if you think about it. There is now way they would have made it onto the streets without someone recognizing Fenris and taking him away from them.”

“They should not have even been close enough to _touch_ him,” Aili insists, intent on being miserable, “And I used magic in front of him, and he was so _scared_. He didn’t even want me to hold him…”

“He was in shock,” they tell her, setting down their book in order to scratch lightly behind one of her ears, “He still needs you. You are his mother.”

Fenris stirs slightly, pulled from sleep by the sound of talking. He blinks his eyes open slowly, tensing a bit when he catches sight of the fox on the bed. Aili lets out a low whine of canine distress, setting her chin on Uthvir’s chest to peer over at him with wide pleading eyes.

He regards her in silence for what feels like an age, green eyes boring into her critically. Accusing or assessing, it is difficult to say.

“Ah-lee?” he finally asks, as though wishing to confirm that some other woodland creature has not managed to break into their rooms.

“I am so sorry, baby,” she whispers tearfully.

After a few more minutes of consideration, Fenris heaves a deep sigh and, with what appears to be a great deal of seriousness and magnanimity, he reaches out one pudgy little hand and pats her head. Twice. A gesture of forgiveness.

“No again," he tells her flatly.

“Not ever,” she agrees.

Uthvir rubs Fenris’ back as a sign of their approval before picking up their book and beginning to read aloud to him again. Aili curls up beside them in contentment, snuggling up somewhere around Uthvir’s hip, and soon enough all three of them have nodded off together in a nest of pillows and blankets. Safe and warm, like peas in a pod.


	17. A House Warming

Uthvir has had a very long day.

It began in the small hours of the morning, when word began to spread through the city that vandals had defaced one of Elgar’nan’s monuments in the middle districts. Peacekeepers had set out to investigate the crime, while several of the city’s artisans were swiftly put to work at reversing the damage to the monument as swiftly as possible. Most everyone had been in agreement that undoing the worst of the offense before Elgar’nan could storm in and actually see it for himself would be… prudent.

None of that had directly involved Uthvir, of course. There was little call for cartographers to respond to criminal vandalism. But the General had wanted to know who was behind the matter, preferably before Elgar’nan could spit roast them, and so several agents who were not otherwise occupied with the disaster were sent out to check the usual channels and investigate possible avenues of retreat. Uthvir was a logical choice for the mission, since they can easily assert, these days, that they are spending time with Fenris and Aili while they are, in fact, crawling through the undercity or poking around the wilderness somewhere.

It would be a more appealing excuse, if it weren’t for the fact that often, they would _prefer_ to be spending time with Fenris and Aili.

Around noon they’d been called off the search when the peacekeepers managed to beat them to an arrest. An artist, Joviality, in the lower districts, had ordered a shipment of cheap paint which matched the variety used in the vandalism. Of course, there were many such shipments – the paint was not an uncommon sort – but apparently there was ‘additional evidence’ pointing the finger at Joviality. So then the matter became figuring out if there was any means of clearing the man’s name, or at least providing enough reasonable doubt to obtain a stay of execution. Joviality was one of Sylaise’s, which at least gave the General a plausible motive for her interest.

Uthvir would say ‘was’, of course, because Elgar’nan arrived at mid-afternoon, and saw fit to assert his own judgements of the situation. Joviality was determined guilty, and was… probably actually responsible, as near as Uthvir had been able to tell. Still, they do not think that a little petty vandalism merited the punishment settled upon by Elgar’nan and Sylaise.

They feel worn down to raw edges, by the time they finally get home.

Aili will not be happy with the news, they think. She tends to know many faces in the lower districts, and even when she doesn’t, news of an execution is never cheerful. They hope she did not know Joviality very well, but they are prepared for all manner of potential grief when they pass through the door to their chambers.

The air is quiet, at least. Peaceful. They can hear Fenris’ distinctive _no’s_ drifting up from the nursery, along with Aili’s gently cajoling tones.

“Okay, alright. No nap. Just let Mama sit quietly with you for a moment,” they hear her say, as they make their way down the corridor. Sometimes Fenris seems to resent his need for regular rest. Uthvir finds the nursery door ajar, and gently pushes it the rest of the way open. Aili is sitting in one of the rocking chairs which Haninan brought for them, and holding Fenris in her lap. He has a few clips in his hair, to keep it out of his eyes – it has growing a little long, now, but he dislikes like people holding sharp things near him, so they have made no effort to trim it. Besides, he looks very cute, Uthvir thinks, with little white stars on his hair clips, and his face all defiantly scrunched up as he smushes his cheek against Aili’s collarbones.

He looks up at them in short order, though. Smiling, and then frowning, and then reaching a tiny, grasping hand towards them.

“Uvir,” he says.

Aili looks up.

“Nanae’s home!” she exclaims. Now that Fenris has mastered calling her ‘mama’ – though he still sometimes insists upon ‘Ah-lee’ – she has been trying to get him to call Uthvir by their title. They have not been much good at enforcing it, though. Fenris’ little _Uvir’s_ sound very cute to their ears, anyway.

They move over towards the rocking chair, offering both of them a smile. Fenris lets them drop a kiss onto his head, too, and even giggles a little, before frowning again.

“Uck,” he says, and swipes his hands over his face.

“You look tired, little one,” Uthvir notes.

He sighs, sounding for all the world like he’s a thousand years older than he is.

“Nuh,” he insists.

They glance over at Aili, and freeze for a moment at the assessing look which _she_ is giving _them._

“You look tired yourself,” she says, expression faltering before her voice lowers to a whisper. “How bad was it?”

They sigh.

“Bad enough that I would rather not talk about it in front of Fenris,” they admit. “Did you know an artisan named Joviality?”

Aili frowns, and considers.

“It doesn’t ring any bells,” she decides, after a moment.

Well. At least there’s that.

By unspoken agreement, the two of them let the matter lie, then. Fenris is huffy, and seems very insistent that he is _not_ tired, does _not_ need a nap, and should probably be allowed to take himself back to the little play area in the sitting room and wail on the tiny practice dummy that Uthvir set up for him there. In light of the training grounds becoming a more stressful location than not, lately.

But he is tired, of course, and so is Uthvir. Aili seems to have had a long day herself. So the three of them eventually just settle into the spare room, rather than the nursery. Uthvir changes out of their gear, and takes Fenris for a little while. Settling onto the big bed with him and a book, to give Aili a chance to stretch her legs and have a break of her own. Fenris frowns, and grumbles, and eventually cries a little. Tiny puffs of misery and frustration overcoming him. Being a baby is difficult, Uthvir thinks. They remember being confused by themselves when _they_ were new, too, and they didn’t have to wait to be able to speak or move or do things on their own, either.

But eventually, the sounds of reading seem to settle Fenris. Aili comes and sits on the opposite side of the bed with them, listening to Uthvir go on and on about the proper maintenance of indoor gardens – not a riveting subject, but it is easy to read, and that is mostly the point. Eventually their voice gets a little tired, though, and the day catches up with them. The book slides down towards the blankets, as Fenris rests against their chest. They can feel the warmth from Aili, lying beside them.

Safe and sound.

They let their own eyes drift shut, and slip away into restfulness with a sigh.

When they wake up, everything still feels pleasantly warm. There are arms wrapped around them from behind. Breaths against the backs of their shoulders. Something moving, just a little, at their front. They open their eyes, and blearily see Fenris. Scooting his way very slowly towards the side of the bed, and out of the secure envelope of their arms.

Their eyes meet.

Fenris lets out a little puff of frustration again. Uthvir brushes a hand over his head.

“Nap time done?” they ask.

Fenris pats their hand.

“I go,” he says. “You sleep.”

At their back Aili sighs, and Uthvir freezes for a moment as her hands roam up and down their chest. She makes an appreciative hum that slides, warm, all the way down through their middle, before she seems to actually wake up. Then she stills, in turn. Patting at them for a few moments, like she’s trying to figure out what she’s holding onto, before she loosens her grip on them.

“…Oh,” she says, faintly embarrassed. “I must have fallen asleep, too.”

Uthvir’s mouth is suddenly very dry.

They clear their throat.

“No problem,” they assure her. “We were just waking up. Right, Fenris?”

Fenris makes his irritated grumbly noise.

“What time is it?” Aili wonders, and finally lets go of them entirely. Their skin is tingling, faintly, and they have to tamp down on the warm rush of emotions threatening to drift out and away from them. They let out a slow breath.

Fenris’ stomach rumbles.

Their lips quirk.

“Time for dinner, I suspect,” the suggest.

“Oh!” Aili exclaims. “I should go to the dining hall, and bring some things back. It would probably take too long to get everyone decent enough to all go together. Is there anything in particular you want?”

Uthvir shrugs.

“Use your best judgement,” they suggest, as Fenris grumbles a little bit more. They clear their throat, not quite looking at Aili as she takes stock of herself. The spare bed is rumpled, and their son’s hair clips are all askew. They extend their hands, and after a moment he relents and climbs back over towards them; and they set about taking out the clips and straightening his clothes, running a hand through their own hair as Aili leaves for her rooms, and then for the dining hall.

Their equilibrium has more or less returned, by the time she gets back. Their thoughts keep slipping towards Ina’then’s counsel. So far, they have… _not_ really acted on it, though. It just seems so strange to think that Aili really is _that_ unaware of her own appeal. And parents are not always the most objective, when it comes to their children. Uthvir has learned more about that thanks to recent events than they ever imagined they would.

Fenris is very far from the days when he might consider courting someone. They are not sure what they will think, when he is old enough to try. It was strange enough when Dorian began doing such things, and Dorian was just a baby they _knew._ Not even their own.

Their son wriggles his way out of their grasp, and they acquiesce to his obvious impatience, and take him back into the sitting room. Letting him play with his toys until Aili comes back again, and then all is set aside for the sake of eating. Fenris wants his mama to help him, so Uthvir gets things set up at the little table they use for such occasions, and then watches the two of them as they eat. Fenris still has his formula, although he has progressed towards mushed up foods, now. He is a tidy eater, for a baby, or so Uthvir has been told. The times when he makes the most mess are usually on the days when he insists on feeding himself. Then he is liable to miss his own mouth. Although successes are cause for a great deal of celebration.

This evening, Aili helps, but Fenris also coordinates his spoon himself. He has some soft stew, and the broth drips. But he chews every piece he secures for himself with a very pointed air of determination.

“Good job!” Aili enthuses, when he manages to get a mouthful of smushed up root vegetables. Fenris smiles, but then some of his triumph dribbles down his chin, and Uthvir hands Aili a napkin before he can get terribly put-out about it.

It is a pleasant way to pass an evening, little though they might have guesses such things.

After dinner time is bath time, and then some more play time. Uthvir goes to write out several messages that they had intended to send before the morning’s calamity claimed their attention, and then make a quick trip out of their chambers to check their message box, to see if they have word from Desire. She has been working with one of their new informants, of late, and Uthvir does not know who it is. But officially, she is map-making in one of June’s cities, and her messages tend to be coded in very amusing ways.

There are none to be found today, however. Probably a precaution in case the peacekeepers decided to scour through everyone’s messages in their hunt for the recent vandal. Some of their neighbours greet them, and ask about Fenris; and try to gossip about Joviality. Uthvir is disinclined to linger, however, and so returns only the polite responses, before making their way back.

Even so, the task takes longer than it should.

When all is said and done, it is time for Fenris to be tucked in for the night. He goes more easily than he had gone to his nap, enduring Uthvir’s kiss to his cheek, and patting their own in turn.

Aili hums to him, as she gets him settled. They can hear her voice, drifting through the chambers. It is wonderfully comforting, they think. Something about singing always is, but Aili’s voice in particular is… different. Not trained, like some, but they think that gives it a quality that makes it more unique. More unassuming. It is simply Aili, and she is the point, more than the sound.

When she emerges from the nursery, Uthvir realizes that they had let themselves linger rather conspicuously in the hall.

She smiles at them, though, and does not seem to note anything strange about it. Only raising a finger to her lips, until she closes the nursery door.

“He dropped right off,” she tells them.

“Good,” they say. “I take it he was a handful today?”

The look on her face is telling.

“I think the rumours bothered him. And he asked for you, a few times. He could probably tell that something bad was going on,” she admits.

“I am sorry, I should have checked back in,” they say.

She waves off their concern, though.

“I know how it is,” she reminds them. “But what happened? You mentioned a… Joviality?”

They nod, and then gesture back towards the sitting room. Further from the quiet peace of the nursery. They find themselves very reluctant to speak of executions and injustice where little ears could hear, even if said ears probably wouldn’t understand very much of things. They might understand more than Uthvir would like, though. Aili follows them to the sitting area near to the garden without questioning it, though, and listens as they go over the events of the day.

She does not seem terribly pleased over the execution, but they are relieved when it fails to strike her with any potent sorrow.

“I did not know him,” she says. And then she lets out a breath. “I hope he thought it was worth it, though. Some pranks… aren’t, in the end.”

They nod, and a dismal kind of silence settles around the two of them, then. As they seem lost in their mutual contemplations of the dangers of the empire, and of living in it.

Fenris will be grown, and will live in this empire, too. And Uthvir hopes, that if he is angry, and if he sees corruption, that he at least learns to be discreet about it. Because they would try, but they know there are some thing they could not protect him from; and the thought makes them cold.

After a stretch of this, though, Aili lets out a sigh. And then a somewhat lighter sound.

“I do not suppose there is much to be done for Joviality,” she says. “But you are probably in need of a break, after all of that. And that reminds me of something I got for you yesterday.”

They blink, and raise their eyebrows a little. Feeling a sudden, flaring candle of hope.

“You… got me a gift?” they ask.

Aili smiles.

“I did!” she says. “I have been trying to think of one for a while now. Nothing could really match everything you have done, of course, and I know you said I don’t need to try, but I wanted to get you _something._ And you have been such a good parent. I know that you haven’t been able to do some of the things you, um. Normally do. With your free time. So I was talking, and some people mentioned things about _alleviating tension,_ and… well…”

She reaches into the drawer by her chair, then, and pulls out a voucher.

Uthvir stills.

They recognize the style of voucher. The emblem on it is for the city’s Pleasure District, and the script below that is the name of one of Desire’s favourite haunts.

“It’s only for one night. I couldn’t afford longer. But the Pleasure House is one of the most reputable in the district, and they offer… uh… a wide range of services, they said,” Aili informs them, extending it with a rather hopeful look on her face.

They stare at her, suddenly gripped by the surreal nature of the moment.

Aili got them a night at a pleasure house.

If they did not know any better, this would probably be one of the sharpest possible refutations of their courtship that she could offer. _Here, stop hitting on me and go fuck someone else._ And for a moment, the barb of it does land. But then they recollect Ina’then’s advice, and reconsider. Aili is not cruel, and they do not think she would be so malicious to them, unprovoked, at the end of such a long and trying day. Her expression is not sly, or cold, or disdainful.

She looks entirely like someone who has tried to get a very thoughtful gift, and hopes it will be well-received.

Uthvir stares at the voucher.

Apparently they do so for too long, because after a moment it wavers in her hand, as Aili hesitates.

“Is it the wrong kind?” she wonders, pulling it back to look it over.

They find themselves at something of a loss for a response.

“It includes a room for the night,” she carries on, explaining with painful earnestness. “You haven’t really been with anyone since we got Fenris. I know you think it would be inappropriate to have people over. So this seemed like a good idea… I declined to specify anyone in, um, specific. I wasn’t sure what you… _liked_.”

They shake their head, just a little.

“You,” they say.

Aili blinks.

“I what?” she wonders.

They swallow, searching for their words. For the right ones to respond to all of this with.

“I like _you,”_ they finally manage. “I have been enamored with you for years. I thought you knew. I have tried to court you seventeen times. I thought you were rebuffing me, so I attempted to withdraw, but I never got over you. So I kept trying again, when it seemed like you might… might be more inclined to accept my overtures. But you never did. Your mother told me you probably did not even realize that I had made them. I thought that was a little absurd. I have adored you since the first day I found you dangling in the sewers, and I… if this is some means of telling me, once and for all, that you will never return my affections, then I will accept that. But I do not think you would dismiss me so _coldly,_ so I… I must believe that your mother was not wrong?”

It is Aili’s turn to stare at them, then.

The little voucher slips from her fingers, and flutters to the floor.

Uthvir feels as though they have just put their heart on the edge of a knife.

“…What?” Aili manages, softly. Her eyes are huge.

They clear their throat, and give a moment of serious consideration to just flinging themselves out of the nearest window. But the only real window in their chambers is much too small for them to fit through, even as a bird.

“I have been trying to court you,” they reiterate. “I am utterly taken with you. That is why I have not had any relations with anyone else since we began living together. It just… would not feel right, I think. When I am heartsick over you. It has put me out of the mood for casual encounters, and out of the mood for intimate ones with other people, too.”

Aili is still staring at them.

Despite its many downsides, the window is starting to look like a better option.

“Bu… wha…” she manages, blinking rapidly. A rush of emotions colours the air; disbelief and wonderment and confusion, among many others. But none of them are particularly damning. Uthvir allows themselves some tentative hope.

“ _Me?”_ Aili finally manages. “How could _you_ be… over _me…?_ When you’re – you’re you! And I’m just, I… I don’t even have any… I’m…”

They frown, baffled by her bafflement.

“You are brave, and kind, and witty, and beautiful,” they say. “I love you.”

The last part slips out so easily, after all of that. So obviously. It feels like it has been trying to pass their lips for months, struggling against the ties of their tongue, and the clumsy fortifications of their teeth. Lingering, unsaid, in so many ways, that it feels almost as if they _must_ have confessed it before. Even though they know that they have not. And the way Aili’s shock ripples forward spells it out clearly.

They remembered themselves, then.

Remember that they are the one with the rank, here. The one who could, potentially, hold an infant and a home and a certain degree of security over Aili’s head. _Advantages._ They could be like those high-ranking elves who try to press them, who offer gifts and favour and attentions but in such a way that implies that declining them is never an option.

“Not that I would ever expect anything from you,” they hasten to assure her. “You do not have to reciprocate, by any means. There would be no consequences to you rejecting me. Even if you did it somewhat coldly. You could just hand me that voucher back, and I would take the dismissal for what it is, and never speak of this again…”

She is still staring at them.

What is she still just staring at them?

“…Say something?” they ask.

She lurches out of her seat, ungainly but urgent, and mashes her mouth against theirs.

And it really is _mashing._ An almost bruising crush of lips, as their noses are squished together, and for a moment they are not sure if she means to kiss them or headbutt them. Almost as soon as it happens she reels back, raising a hand to her own mouth as her brows furrow.

“I’m so sorry!” she says. “I did that wrong, didn’t I? Did I hurt you? I think I might and split your lip a little…”

Uthvir makes a pained sound, and pulls her back towards them. Cradling her face as they kiss her with care. Their lips are a little tender, now, but hers are soft, and the contact all but _sings_ through them. Her cheeks are beneath their hands. Curls of her hair fall across their fingers. The air ripples with a heady mixture of emotions, a kind of awed and revelatory thing, as they tilt their head and move their mouth against hers, and coax her towards them until she is essentially in their lap. Her hands grip their shoulders. Her breath ghosts across their lips.

“There,” they sigh, when she finally pulls back. They keep their own eyes closed. Just in case this is it; just in case there is a blow yet to fall, because they can scarcely believe this development, after so many years spent trying to give up hope.

Aili makes an odd sound, and rests her forehead against theirs.

“I’m not very good at kissing,” she says, faintly.

She sounds a little dazed.

They let out a laugh, edged with the just a hint of their own not-quite-hysteria.

“Oh, but I like kissing you,” they assure her.


	18. How to Be

Aili has been somewhat distracted, as of late.

She keeps bumping into walls, stepping on Fenris’ toys, and dropping whatever she happens to be carrying onto the floor. Or onto her shirt. Or directly onto her feet on a few occasions. There had even been on unfortunate incident where she had tripped over the coffee table and sent the remnants of her son’s breakfast flying half way across their sitting room. Fenris had laughed though, so perhaps the subsequent twenty minutes she had spent scraping porridge off the wall was sort of worth it.

Usually, her thoughts are not so easily diverted, especially when she has a child that needs looking after, but…

Uthvir is in love with her.

The idea of it keeps creeping into her mind at random intervals, and when it does, she finds that she loses all focus on the task at hand. Still astounded by the notion, days later. That one of the most amazing people she knows, who could probably have anyone they wanted in the whole of the empire, come to it, picked her. For some reason.

Not that she finds anything about the idea objectionable. Quite the opposite, in fact. She just…doesn’t know what to do with herself. How she is supposed to act around them now. Her first attempt at a kiss had come off as more of an assault than anything, though Uthvir had not seemed perturbed by it, but it does make her somewhat wary of trying a second time.

Aili is not even certain that kissing is appropriate for their current relationship. She is not even certain what their current relationship _is_. If they are courting still, or if this means they have reached something more. Uthvir had insisted they could take things at whatever pace she wanted, but she’s never had to pace herself in romance. She’s never had a romance at all.

One kiss. Just one. Right after her vallaslin ceremony, to congratulate her on her coming of age. That is all the experience she has. And it had been brief and chaste and…familial.

Not the way it had felt when Uthvir had kissed her at all.

That had been warm and soft, and toe curling. The edge of wanting in the air around them, and the disbelief. Their hands cupping her face as her heartbeat thundered in her ears. Overwhelming and yet, still gentle. Giving. As though even in this, they cannot help but gift her more than she feels capable of reciprocating in an acceptable fashion.

Even so, she thinks she would like to kiss them again.

Aili heaves a sigh, almost wistful.

“Ah-lee?” Fenris blinks up at her from where he is playing with some of his toys. Blocks seem to be the favorite today, though if she didn’t know any better, she’d think he was practicing his hand-eye coordination, with how careful he is about setting each one exactly into place. He takes his block building very seriously, as he seems to take everything else. It is adorable, and possibly a very good sign for his future. June is always on the lookout for people who can craft and build things with dedication and skill.

She shakes her head slightly, as if to dismiss her stray thoughts of romance, smiling down at him.

“I’m watching, little heart,” she promises, “You’re doing a very good job. We should show Nanae when they get home, I’m sure they’ll be impressed. They’re always tinkering with things, you know. Maybe when you get a little older, they can show you some of the projects in their workshop. Would you like that?”

Fenris only gives her a noncommittal shrug, but she thinks there is some definite interest in both his expression and in the air around him.

“Uvir okay?” he asks instead. They have been gone since early this morning on a mission to investigate a portion of the undercity that had previously been closed off due to a collapse a few decades ago, and she has noticed that their son does not seem to like it when one of them vanishes for an extended period of time. Understandable, given the neglect of his previous caretakers, she supposes. 

“Nanae is fine,” Aili assures him, “They had to do another stinky job today, so we have to let them take a nice bath before any hugs or kisses, right?”

Fenris nods, and then seems to consider something.

“Ah-lee, too,” he suggests with a pointed look. Aili laughs.

“Am I stinky?” she wonders coming to sit next to him on the floor, “Do we all need a bath?”

“No,” Fenris huffs, particularly affronted by the notion of bath time, “For Uvir. Ah-lee give ta…the come-home kiss.”

He looks pleased with his somewhat successful articulation of the assertion, and for her part, Aili cannot seem to do more than blink at him in surprise. Her mind trails back to recent events of Uthvir and kissing and a distinct warmth seems to drip down into the pit of her stomach. She can feel her ears burning.

“Okay,” she agrees softly, “Come-home kisses for Nanae when they get back.”

“It good,” he declares, reaching over and patting her hand as though to reassure her, “Oot-vir…Uvir, they like dat. The kissing.”

“Oh, do they?” she snorts, “And what about you?”

So asking, she leans over and plants a kiss directly on his nose. Fenris makes a noise of distinct objection.

“ _No_.”

~

Despite her promise, however, Uthvir does not come home before it is time for Fenris to go to bed. Even though they should have been back well before dinner. She tries not to think about it too much while their son is still awake, in an attempt to shield him from any worry that might come rippling out of her as a result, but once he has gone to sleep she can feel it settling into her. A deep cold fear.

She thinks she probably would have heard something by now if something truly catastrophic had occurred. If the rebellion had been uncovered and their cohorts placed in chains or executed. They would be coming for her, too, if that were the case, and Fenris would have already been taken away.

It is much more likely that there has been a fight or an accident. Unexpected traps. Perhaps someone has been hurt.

Perhaps that someone was Uthvir.

But someone would have told her, wouldn’t they?

Aili makes an attempt to get ready for bed, but finds that the Dreaming is beyond her reach for the moment. Her mind is far too tangled up with the problems of the waking world. She decides to wait in the sitting room instead.

She tries to read, but her mind is to agitated to focus. She has similar issues with a card game. And in the end, she simply ends up pacing around by the door.

It is nearly dawn when the door finally opens, and Uthvir comes staggering through it, smelling just as foul as one might expect after a day hiking through muck and waste.

There is a very loud part of herself that wants to simply fling herself into their arms in relief, but there is still that little uncertainty in the back of her mind. What do they expect? What do they want? Should she kiss them? She does not think they would object, but this is the first time she has been in love with someone, and she wants to do it right.

And that is a staggering revelation all on its own. That she loves them. She had realized it a few seconds before smashing her face into theirs in a bumbling attempt at a kiss, but she still has not articulated it well. Or at all. They have mostly just been orbiting around each other for the last few days, both of them wanting something, and neither of them quite sure how to go about asking for it.

Maybe she should have written them a poem or something before they came home.

In the end, she settles for taking hold of their hand and giving it a squeeze.

“Are you alright?” she scrapes out.

“I am fine,” Uthvir promises, sounding haggard, reaching out with their free hand to cup her cheek. She leans into it with a long exhale of breath.

“You don’t look fine,” Aili notes, some of the worry seeping out of her.

“Just tired, mostly,” they sigh, “I managed to get stuck in part of the tunnels, and I had to wait for Squish and the General to come dig me out.”

“And that took the better part of the day?” Aili asks, doubtful.

“Well, that and the nest of strange slimy sewer monsters Dorian discovered by cleverly falling into it,” they tell her with a wry twist of their lips, “I think they must have been creations Ghilan’nain tried to destroy by flushing them down the privy at some point, but they were too stubborn to die. Nasty, spiny little things, caught me in the shoulder, and nearly bit off two of Squish’s fingers.”

“See? This is what happens when I don’t come along,” she grins a bit uncertainly, trying to subtly check them over for any injures they might not have mentioned.

“I am certain you would have fished us all out of there in record time,” Uthvir smiles back at her. 

They stroke her hair fondly, and there is a moment where she thinks perhaps they would like to kiss her, but they simply stare at her instead. Drinking her in. She wonders if she was meant to take the cue and initiate things this time, but she second guesses herself again, and then it has been quiet too long, and the silence feels awkward. 

“Well…if you are tired, I guess we should both get to bed,” she fumbles, feeling a bit deflated.

Uthvir sighs.

“Yes, I suppose you are right,” they agree, sounding resigned. They turn away from her and begin walking towards their bedroom, and she can feel the disappointment settling in her gut.

“C-can I…come with you?” she blurts, just as they get the door open.

“What?” Uthvir asks, looking back to stare at her in surprise.

“W-we don’t have to do anything,” she assures them hastily, “I mean, w-we could, I wouldn’t…um. But you’re tired and you were hurt, and I was worried, and I just…want to stay with you. If…that’s alright?”

“More than alright,” Uthvir asserts, seeming surprised, but smiling all the same.

They hold open the door for her and she shuffles into their bedchamber with her hands balling into the hem of her sleep shirt. She suddenly finds herself wishing she had worn something prettier, but everything she goes to bed in looks about the same. She goes and stands near the bed, and Uthvir pulls the covers down invitingly, before taking a moment to tug off their armor.

“I…I’m…not very good at this,” Aili declares haltingly as Uthvir sits down on the edge of the bed to pull off their boots.

“Good at what?” they wonder, finally stripped down to shirt and pants and sliding in under the covers.

“Any of it,” she huffs in reply, inching closer to the bed, but still a bit too shy to get in next to them, “This whole…whatever we have now. I don’t know what I’m doing. What I’m…supposed to do.” 

“You do not have to do anything you do not want to,” Uthvir promises, extending a hand to her in offering.

“B-but I…I do want things,” she says, “I want this. I want to be with you. I want…so many things that I’m not sure how to express them properly. And I get so turned around about it that I’m not even certain when it is appropriate to kiss you or hold your hand or… anything. I know it sounds silly, but I’ve never…um. Well, I’ve never done any of this. I’ve never felt this way about anyone before. At least, I don’t think I have. And I…I want to do it right.”

“Well, to begin with, I can assure to that there are very few times I would object to you kissing me,” Uthvir says smilingly, “Outside of that, I would imagine that so long as we are both enjoying ourselves, there is no ‘wrong way’ to go about this. We can change things between us, or they can stay exactly how they are. These revelations do not need to lead to physical intimacy or anything else, if it makes you uncomfortable. I told you, and I meant it, there will never be consequences for you if you refuse me something.”

“So…I can kiss you now?” she wonders, kneeling on the edge of the bed.

“As long as you promise to be a little more gentle with me than you were last time,” they grin, exuding genuine pleasure as they shift closer to her in anticipation.

Aili scoots forward cautiously, her heartbeat thundering like mad. She puts her hands on their shoulders to steady herself and to help a little with guiding her mouth towards its intended target. Uthvir meets her half way however, bringing their hands up to tangle in the loose mess of her curls as their lips meet and the sensation shoots through her like a bolt of lightning.

She leans into them, letting them draw her down onto the bed, partially splayed across their chest. They end up more or less tangled together under a mess of sheets. Moving slowly. Soft lips, and gentle searching hands. Everything feels deliciously warm and bright. Heady emotions of affection and desire and happiness entwining together so thoroughly that she is not sure if they belong to her or Uthvir.

“I love you,” Aili pants out, after what feels like a blissful lifetime of kissing. Feeling sleepy and pliant and content. “I think I must have loved you for a long time. Because…because, even before Fenris, I don’t think I could have imagined my life without you in it somewhere. You make everything better, all the time. Since the day I met you, and you swooped in to save me. Like some sort of hero of legend. But I never would have dreamed that you would… Well. The point is, that I hurt you, even though I didn’t mean to, and… And I never want to do that again.”

“Hm,” Uthvir notes eloquently from somewhere in the side of her neck, still kissing and caressing her by turns, “Yes, I am Uthvir, dashing knight of the sewers. My heroic deeds are lauded far and wide. I am the magnanimous sort, though, so I could probably be persuaded to forgive you for your grievous wrongdoing.”

“I’m being serious,” Aili objects, swatting their shoulder.

“So am I,” they grin at her.

“Well, you certainly smell like the sewer king,” she informs them, wrinkling her nose.

“I am a knight, not a king,” Uthvir corrects her with an air of mock offense, “And to absolve you of your crime, fair maiden, would ask only for a single kiss from your pure sweet lips.”

“Did you drink the sewer water?” Aili asks, laughing, but she lets them draw her closer. Sealing their mouth across her own.

They press deeper, sliding their tongue into her mouth slowly. Heat tingles down her spine and she wraps her arms about them in what almost feels like desperation, trying to not get swept away. The passion of it rushes through her, igniting a million nerves beneath her skin, until she finds herself moaning softly. Bending to them. It feels like there must be some sort of magic involved, but there isn’t. It’s just Uthvir, who seems to make a magic of their own. Blazing and bright. 

They slip a hand up under her shirt, warm and caressing, reaching higher. And she suddenly finds herself uncertain again. Stiffening slightly in their embrace.

“Should I stop?” Uthvir asks, noticing her discomfort.

“I…I don’t know,” she says, slightly breathless, “I know I said I didn’t mind if we…um. But it just seems…”

“Rushed?” they hazard a guess. Aili nods slowly. They press a kiss against her forehead. “I suppose it would not be terribly romantic if I smelled like sewage the first time we slept together. Perhaps we should sleep, then. I imagine we have both had a long day.”

“Alright,” she complies softly, shifting her position a bit so she can tuck her head beneath their chin, wrapping her arms about their waist and giving them one last little squeeze before settling in to sleep. “I…um. I did want to, though. I mean, I do want to. To do that. With you. I am still getting used to the idea of…um…us. But I like it. Just…just so you know. Really. Because you are my heart.”

“As you are mine,” Uthvir sighs pressing one last kiss into her hair.


	19. The Best Laid Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *bangs fists on the table* SMUT SMUT SMUT SMUT!

They go slow, with Aili.

Even with all the confessions out of the way. They have no desire for her to temper any reluctance she has, and they worry that even if she does not fear that they might seek retribution for some perceived misstep, she might hesitate to communicate something out of gratitude or… any kind of sentiment, really, other than the desire to be with them.

They might be overthinking it a little, though. Maybe not giving her enough credit, because of course, she’s _Aili_ , so if she objected to something she probably _would_ just tell them. She has a habit of telling all manner of people all kinds of seemingly indiscreet and inadvisable things, and imagining her doing something just because she had been pressured to… apart from being blood-boiling, it also seems like an image that cannot quite fit.

Aili is good and generous and thoughtful, but she is not a doormat.

Uthvir still worries, though. Because that is how power works. It makes it harder for people to say ‘no’, makes the consequences of saying ‘no’ more dire, makes the expectation of subservience so ingrained that even when there is no threat at all, ‘no’ still seems somehow unattainable.

They have served the General for all of their life, and the General is a good person. She saved them, and accepted them, and has helped them and still helps them. The very fact that they have Fenris and Aili and their chambers inside the tower now is a testament to it. She would never press them for more than they would be willing to give, either, but even so. Uthvir knows how it feels, to owe something very precious to someone with a lot of power, and no matter how good and kind and noble they are, there’s always… _something_ there. Lurking. The possibility of being wrong, perhaps. Of having misread everything in the world so far, and knowing that an inaccurate assessment of someone else’s character or intentions could steal everything from them. No matter how unlikely it seems, the danger is still there, and it still impacts things.

So.

They go slow.

Kissing mostly, at first. And cuddling. Lying in bed together, not always in any kind of sexual sense, either. Just in closeness. Often they drag Fenris into their cuddle pile, when he doesn’t seem too perturbed about it. He always makes little long-suffering sighs, but he sleeps better, they find, when he’s nestled between the two of them.

Aili seems to like the shift, too.

“When I was little my family slept like this,” she explains to them. “Me and my parents, all snug together. I… might have missed it, a little.”

They know what that’s like, they think. Sometimes their skin is too sensitive, and they feel… more like Fenris, they suppose. Like any touch to it would be too much. Unwelcome. Those are the days when they wear a lot of layers, to try and drown out the sensitivity of their skin by putting pressure on it, and to protect it from unexpected touches, and chase off the lingering sense of vulnerability.

But other days, they feel… almost hungry for touch, they suppose. Sex is good for that, and they like it, but in and of itself it’s not the sex they want, so much as the contact. The feel of someone else’s warmth, their body and the air around them, too, the emotions they have as well as the physical presence of it. It’s not a feeling they ever examined very closely before. They have always been slightly afraid that it is a _wrong_ kind of hunger, that it comes from them being incomplete.

Aili seems to feel it too, though. Even more than they do, maybe. After some initial awkwardness, she seems to absolutely adore the amount of touching going on. It doesn’t take very long at all for her to get the hang of kissing, and her hands have a way of finding routes past the buckles and fastenings of their gear and straight to their skin that they had never considered before. She sighs and presses closer, most often, and at night there’s very little they can do to _stop_ her from sprawling all over them.

Not that they’re really inclined to try.

And Fenris also seems to have the same need, and presents it with almost precisely the same contradictions that Uthvir does, too. So they suppose that, if it’s something that Aili and Fenris both feel, then it’s… probably normal, in fact?

Not to mention, if it’s normal, and something that most people need, there doesn’t seem to be much reason not to indulge in it.

They cuddle Aili, and they cuddle their son; and tentatively, things start to, at once, settle into a new routine, and move towards uncharted territory.

Finally, after discussing the matter some, and in a week when Fenris seems to be doing very well, they take him to visit with Aili’s parents. Who are more than thrilled to look after their grandson for a night, to the point where they all but chase Aili and Uthvir back out again.

Despite the rush of anticipation they can feel, though, the pair of them take their time walking back to the tower. The night is very nice; it’s snowing, in light columns which fall away from the main roads, and dust the lower city in a gentle white blanket. A few spirits drift through the streets, but most of the usual foot traffic is lessened, as the upper city residents avoid the ‘inclement weather’. In a fit of playfulness, Aili takes Uthvir by the hand, and leads them up towards the rooftops; to where the snow is permitted to fall, and the air holds enough chill to make them shiver.

“How long has it been since it was just the two of us?” she muses.

“A while,” they concede.

Not that either of them would even remotely do without Fenris. But still, they understand. They hadn’t thought to really miss their interactions with Aili – seeing as how she is living with them now, that would be strange – but there is something about running around the city with her that is… different, from other things. They suppose, when they think about it, this is a large part of how they met. How they have been with each other, for a long time, now.

Aili gets a certain look in her eye, and then glances speculatively down at the snow.

“Charmed snowballs,” she suggests. “I bet we could make them stick to the upper city streets. That would get the aesthetic regulations people in a twist, having to deal with actual _snow._ Some of them might even faint.”

Uthvir snickers.

“The poor clean-up crew, though,” they counter.

Aili lifts up a handful of snow, and rolls it into a ball. She shrugs.

“It wouldn’t be so bad,” she counters. “Just snow. A heating charm and it all melts anyway. The only people who would really be bothered would be the ones who think they’re too fancy for the weather.”

“I suppose-“ they begin.

They are not _entirely_ surprised when they get cut off by the impact of the snowball crashing against their chest, however. Soft flakes drift down the front of their vest, as Aili grins at them. They lock eyes with her for a moment, watching her breath puff in the air in front of her, and then they dash forwards.

“No, no, no!” Aili counters. “Keep back!”

She scrambles away, reaching for another handful of snow as Uthvir does the same. They summon up a quick flurry and launch their retaliation, but Aili is quick, and already dodging. She flings another, messier handful of snow at them in return, before nimbly leaping down to the next rooftop, and the chase is on. The two of them leave light footprints in the powder, not bothering with many spells as Uthvir pursues. The snowballs are light and harmless, and prompt only occasional sounds of protest whenever one hits its mark. Uthvir manages to aim well enough to get Aili’s hair full of snow, and the collar of her shirt, as well; and for her part, she lands quite a few strikes, but the only place where the snow really sticks is at the top of their belt.

They catch her by the bridge to June’s tower, at last. The jump down from it is further than most and Aili hesitates, just for a moment; but long enough for Uthvir two sweep in, and close their arms around her. Then they call up their wings, and scatter the last segment of rooftop snow. Carrying her, breathless and giddy, up towards the brighter lights of the main road, and the gleaming sigils of the bridge.

“I win,” they declare.

“I got you fifteen times, you only got me twelve,” Aili counters. She’s a little breathless, and there’s colour in her face, and big huge chunks of snow in her hair.

Her lips look very flushed, too.

Uthvir licks their own.

“But I captured you,” they insist.

Aili leans up a little. Their breath hitches, as her hand settles against the side of their neck.

“I let you,” she tells them, still playful, but with some obvious and delightful heat.

They are absolutely helpless to do anything but kiss her, then. Closing the distance between their lips, as her soft exhalation puffs against their cheeks, and then they have her. Her mouth is warm and pliant, eager as she tightens her grip in their collar, and then nips at their bottom lip. The brush of her fingers against the short hairs at the back of their neck is distinctive enough to make them shiver.

When they pull back, they feel like a struck match.

“Home?” they suggest. Their voice is a husky, now.

Aili nods, and reluctantly, they set her back onto her feet. She takes them by the hand, though, and they set a… _swift_ pace, not quite as energetic as their rooftop race, but enough so that Uthvir doubts they are being inconspicuous. They lace their fingers with Aili’s, taking the quickest route up through the tower, before they finally reach their door. They barely get through it before Aili turns and pounces on them, then, backing them up against the front entrance as she claims another kiss, and presses flush against them. The snow on them has melted, now; her hair is damp, and her cheeks are glistening.

“I want to feel you,” she tells them.

Uthvir wraps their arms around her, slipping a hand up under the back of her shirt.

“You are sure?” they ask.

She pinches the top of their bicep.

“ _Yes,”_ she says, and then leans up to kiss them once more. Fiercely, at first – or fiercely for her; since the ‘first kiss incident’, Aili has been very careful about rushing the process – but it doesn’t take long for the gesture to soften, and turn languid, and intent. Uthvir slips one of their legs between hers, and lets their hands drift down as she presses into them. They settle their grip onto the swell of her backside, tightening their hold just enough to press her down against their thigh.

Her breath hitches.

“Good,” they murmur. “I want you, too. I want you so badly…”

Aili’s hands flutter against them, and she makes a small sound of frustration.

“What do we do? Bed?” she suggests. “Or… the bath, maybe…?”

Uthvir considers. They could probably both stand to bathe and warm up a little, but… there are other ways to warm up, and a bed seems like too appealing a prospect to turn down right now.

“My room?” they suggest, pressing a kiss to the side of her mouth.

Aili tilts her hips against them, and nods.

“Okay. Yes. Good. Your room,” she agrees.

They manage to make it there, although not without stopping off at a fair few walls along the way. Aili’s fingers wriggle their way around the buckle of Uthvir’s belt, and it drops to the floor of the hall. Uthvir gets their hand up along her back, still beneath her outer tunic, and they manage to undo the ties along the back of her undershirt. They sneak their other hand up, before they make it to the door, and carefully pull the tie out of her hair as well; and she responds by pulling open the front buttons of their vest, and then huffing at the shirt beneath.

“You have so many _fastenings,”_ she complains.

“An oversight. Clearly we should have gone to your parents’ house in silken nightgowns,” they muse. She grins at them.

“I think they would have figured us out if we had,” she says, backing them into the bedroom.

Uthvir raises their eyebrows, but decides not to mention that her parents almost _certainly_ knew what was up. That, they think, would be bad bedroom etiquette, and a derailment of things besides. Aili looks beautifully dishevelled in the dim evening light of their bedroom, with her hair down and her lips well-kissed. They take a moment to admire the image, as she closes the door behind them.

They can feel the brief flare of her nervousness. So far, such flares have been enough to stall them; to sideline things back into simple caresses and kisses. But tonight the nerves do not linger for very long, before a rush of determination replaces them.

She reaches for the hem of her own tunic, and pulls it off. Taking her unlaced underthings with it, as she reveals a wealth of soft, golden skin. Such a different shade from their own. Warmer, Uthvir thinks, as they marvel at her.

They still remember finding her in the pipes beneath the city, clutching one of Ghilan’nain’s creations, at risk of being swept away.

She reaches for them.

Clutching another one of Ghilan’nain’s creations, they suppose. At risk of being swept away again.

“You are so beautiful,” they say. “The sun must grow envious, whenever its light shines on you.”

Aili snorts, and the odd tension of the moment breaks.

“Where did you find _that_ line?” she asks them, although she bites her lip, and seems a little pleased. And a little confused, too, as she tends to whenever they heap her with praise.

“I made it up,” they admit. “It fits, though. You are much easier to look at, and fairer by far.”

They pull her close, their hands on her bare skin, and hers trailing up to frame the sides of their face.

“It’s the _sun._ Generally kind of difficult to look at,” she counters. “Besides, we both know _you’re_ the pretty one.”

They shake their head.

“My charms can hardly compare to yours,” they insist. _“You_ are the pretty one.”

“No, _you._ ”

The argument is silly, and light, and carries them the rest of the way to Uthvir’s bed. When they get to it, Uthvir decides on a moment of flourish; they sweep Aili up, and draw her, laughing, into the sheets. Still half-dressed and smiling, warm and soft and firm by turns in their grasp. They have carried her enough times, by now – though usually when one of them is hurt, or they need to fly. Holding her tight when there is nothing wrong at all is still a novel experience, and so is letting their lips explore her skin, discovering all the places that make her sigh or squirm or laugh.

She buries her fingers in their hair, and trades their own touches for some pointed tugs, as she tries to get their clothes off of them. Very intent upon that quest, it seems; enough so that when she finally gets them shirtless, she crows in triumph over it.

“I have you now,” she declares, running her hands down the bare skin of their chest. Fiddling with their necklace, before she pulls that away, too.

They shiver.

“So you do,” they agree. “Vhenan.”

The rush of affection, faintly tinged with awe, that fills the air almost makes them dizzy. Aili swallows, and then pulls them in for more kisses. Pressing close again, savouring their entanglement until the heat twisting in their stomach is nearly unbearable in its intensity. They want to do so many things. Want to use their lips and fingers and tongue, want to be inside of her, and feel her touch them, and stoke the pleasure in her until she is calling their name. They suck a bruise into the side of her neck, as her hips shift against them in turn, and the passion builds up like a crackling storm above their bed. Her hands trail down their back, and then she lets out another breath.

“Is there any way to get our pants off without letting go of each other?” she asks them.

They consider it.

They fight back a growl as Aili rocks against them at just the right angle to test their restraint.

“Do you like these pants?” they ask.

She pauses.

“Not particularly?”

“Then I will get you new ones,” they decide, and she seems confused for a moment. Until they extend their nails, and reach for her belt, and efficiently tear it open. Careful not to pull it tight enough to hurt, using the sharpness of their nails a little bit of magic, before moving to attack the pants themselves. The seams come apart with a few swift actions, and some – admittedly not-quite-dignified – wriggling on their part manages to get their own down far enough that they can kick them away.

The wriggling has a pleasant side effect, though, as they move against Aili, and she starts moving against them in turn. Twisting closer to them, as she bites her lip.

They fling aside the last scrap of her decimated pants, twisting a little to toss it over the side of the bed. She presses a kiss beneath their ear, but then, despite her own insistence, seems to settle back a little. Eyes trailing across them.

They return the favour. She has always been beautiful, of course, with a pleasantly curved shape. Smaller than their own, though not by much. Her hair has dried, by now, and it curls at all the edges, golden and soft. Her nails are uneven, and her hands are gentle where they rest against Uthvir’s chest.

She stares, and stares, for her own part. Starting at their lips, before she draws her gaze down. Down the length of their torso, stopping briefly at their nipples and navel, before coming to rest on their growing – and very obvious – arousal.

They have seen each other naked before; but Uthvir can allow that context changes a lot of important things.

“May I take the lead…?” they ask.

Aili actually seems a little be relieved to defer to their experience, although she also seems quite interested in their current endowments.

They draw her to the pillows, and roll them both so that they are on top. Going back to the lovemark they gave her, and tracing their lips down from it. Exploring her collarbones, and the soft skin of her breasts. They even softer skin around her navel, where they venture their tongue. Aili’s fingers curl into their hair, and she seems very pleased to move it around, as they descend. Mussing the shape of it, until she lets out a long breath.

“Where are you going?” she asks.

“Not far,” they promise. “Tell me if you want to stop.”

And then they settle between her legs. Her breath hitches, as they gently push her thighs apart, and spread her before them. So close they smell her arousal, and press their lips to the softest skin she has. Her fingers tighten in their hair, briefly, and there is a flare of surprise at the first press of their mouth to her. A broken gasp that makes their own arousal twitch in answer, but it is no trouble to draw out the proceedings, and there are no words to describe how pleasant it is when their tongue starts to move against her, and she _gasps_ so beautifully.

They hum in approval, and settle into a steady, gentle rhythm. Not wanting to get too caught up that, if she has any objections, she fails to voice them. But after a few minutes she is pressing against them more firmly, and the arousal in the air is spiked with just the faintest hint of impatience. _Need._ Her thighs tighten around them, and Uthvir obligingly picks up the pace; running their hands in soothing strokes across her legs, as they work their tongue against her, and taste her building arousal.

“Oh,” she says, tugging at their hair just a little, before she moves her hands to the sheets instead. “Oh, _oh._ Uthvir!”

Their grip on her legs tightens, and they have to force themselves to keep their pace. To resist the sudden urge to climb back up her, and kiss her and press her down into the mattress. Sink inside of her and take their own pleasure, too, but they know it is much sweeter this way. They keep at it, venturing their tongue inside of her, but after a few more moments it becomes apparent that she wants them deeper than it can reach. Her heels press against their back, though, and for a moment they are quite pleasantly trapped; locked in where they cannot quite reach where she seems to want them, but also where they can easily lick her senseless.

They file the knowledge away, in their ever-increasing stockpile of things relevant to Aili; and almost as soon as she has clenched around them, she loosens her hold on them again, her face dark with arousal and embarrassment.

“Sorry!” she offers.

They press a kiss to her mound, and smile.

“Nothing to be sorry for,” they say, and take a few seconds to deliberately shorten their nails, before moving their fingers to where their tongue had been. The combination seems to work better, as Aili’s hips hitch towards them, and her legs tremble, and her breaths turn even more ragged.

They suck at her sensitive flesh, fingers gently probing inside of her until they find an angle that makes her gasp. And then the languid atmosphere vanishes, as they work their touch just so, slick and warm and increasingly swift.

She calls for them again, as she finally comes.

“Vhenan!”

They kiss her inner thighs, caressing her soothingly as she pants her way through the aftershocks. They mean to give her some time; let her process it, and recover, and see what she wants to try next. But before they can move themselves, then, she is pulling them upwards. Drawing them insistently back into her arms, peppering sloppy kisses across their forehead and cheeks.

“Too far away,” she insists.

Uthvir is more than happy to hold her, though the press of her hip against their erection has them drawing in a sharp breath, as the pleasant friction sends a jolt up through their belly.

When it happens a second time, it still seems like a normal part of being held.

When it happens a third, though, they note that Aili is angling her hips in a very _particular_ way.

They let out a breath.

“We can take a minute,” they tell her.

She nibbles at the side of their ear, which makes it somewhat difficult for them to recollect why that’s important.

“I want to feel you,” she insists again.

“Just let me get something,” they request. She has not done this before, she needs a lot of preparation. Aili makes a vague sound of protest as they move, but they only need to open the bedside table. They do so with focused intent, swiftly undoing the latch on it, sliding it open, and drawing out a small bottle of odourless, tasteless oil, that warms at a touch.

Sometimes simple is best.

“Is this alright?” they ask her, showing it to her.

She blinks at it.

“For…?”

“For you,” they explain, unstoppering the top, and pouring some out into their palm. Enough to make the size of a large coin. They let her dip her fingers into it, and test it, though she does so only bemusedly, as she presses kisses against their shoulder and tilts her hips against them again.

“If it will get you inside me,” she tells them, and Uthvir has to bite back a groan at the sheer prospect, by now.

_Pace yourself,_ they insist.

It is so satisfying, too, to simply know that she is enjoying their touch.

They press her back into the pillows, then, rubbing their first handful of oil into her skin. They let themselves indulge in her breasts for a moment. Caressing them until they are almost slippery soft, and Aili is biting her bottom lip, and digging her fingers into their shoulders. Her satisfaction apparently brief, or at least, easily overwhelmed be renewing desire.

They forgo the concept of a whole body massage, in light of that – their own impatience is getting… excessive – and pour out another handful of oil. Then they work their hand down between her legs again, holding her back to their chest and whispering endearments both filthy and sweet, as they work their fingers into her again, and set about stretching her open.

“You tasted very good,” they tell her, curling their touch inside of her. They let their free hand wander back to her breasts. A soft moan escapes her, and they shift their hips, rocking against her backside a little. “Your cries were sweeter, though. I like it when you call my name. When you want me like this. It is so perfectly beautiful.”

Her throat bobs as she swallows, and then presses back against them. Caught, it seems, by wanting to shift her hips down onto their fingers, and back against their arousal. The alternation is surprisingly pleasant, though, as they settle into a litany of praise and affection, nipping at the tips of her ears until they can move three fingers inside of her with ease.

By then the sheets are a tangled mess, and the air is thick with sexual hunger, and Uthvir’s skin is all but burning with anticipation.

“Please,” they find themselves asking, as they nevertheless press their touch more urgently inside of Aili, until the rocking motions of her hips are frantic again. “Please, may I have you? My heart, my dearest heart, may I have you?”

“Yes, yes!” she tells them, taking the hand they have at her breasts, and pulling it up to kiss their fingers. “Vhenan, _yes.”_

They want to see her, they think. See her eyes.

They draw their fingers from her, and roll her on top of them, then. She makes a startled sound as they settle onto their own back, and draw one of her legs across them; spreading her pointedly above them, before moving a hand to their straining erection. Aili wobbles for an instant, and braces her hands against their chest; they use their free hand to prop up her hip a little, until she seems to catch on.

“You set the pace,” they tell her. “If it hurts, stop. Alright?”

Her gaze is hungry, when she looks at them. Near enough to her own edge, it seems, that she hesitates only a moment, before settling herself above them.

They angle their cock towards her entrance, and brush their thumb across her hip, as she slowly lowers herself down onto them. Her inner walls flutter around them, slick and ready enough that there is virtually no resistance, as she takes them in and squeezes them tight. They keep their gaze mostly on her face. Watching her eyes widen, watching her bite her bottom lip, and then draw in a sweet breath as she finally settles onto them. Hands splayed over them, as they hold both of her hips, now.

“Are you alright?” she asks them.

Uthvir swallows, and wants so badly to _move._

“Yes,” they say. Their own breath hitches into a gasp, then, as Aili lifts herself up a little, and comes back down again. Their fingers twitch against her, and Aili holds their gaze, and repeats the motion. Not going too high, but high enough that they get some much-needed friction.

“ _Aili_ ,” they implore.

She moves more confidently the third time. Dragging herself up, and then lowering again. They do not have the wherewithal to keep quiet, it seems, as she rides them with increasing assuredness. The fourth time, she tilts her hips a little, and they have to fight to keep from rolling them back over again. Thrusting into her with abandon. Her hands caress up and down their chest, and she _smiles_ at them, pressing exploratory touches across the sensitive skin of their nipples. Her own breasts shine, just faintly, with the oil they worked into her skin, as they jostle with her motions.

And then she clenches around them – not coming, they think, just _clenching_ – and they curse, as she hums at them in return.

The next few motions are swifter, dragging them up and up until Aili ventures a more ambitious movement, and they slip out of her. They glide between her thighs, and she reaches for them. Her hand is warm, touch gentle but even so, as she closes her palm around them, it proves enough to send them over the edge. They let out a startled cry as they come over her fingers.

“Oh!” she says, blinking down at them.

Then she gives them an experimental squeeze, running her thumb over their spilt seed, and tremble with the rush to their senses. Her touch is still strangely light, after all that stimulus; inadvertently teasing and tantalizing in the echoes of their aftermath, and the somehow doubt they will be spent for long. Especially not when she decides to run a few soothing touches up and down their length.

Her own cheeks are still flushed, though, and arousal whirls around her.

“It won’t fit back inside now, will it?” she muses, somewhat breathlessly.

Uthvir shakes their head.

“Come here?” they suggest.

She nods, and settles onto the bed beside them; and lets them use their fingers again instead. Their motions are somewhat more disjointed, but she is near enough that she doesn’t seem to mind. Only clutching them close as she comes again, this time with a sigh. Then she slumps against their chest. Sticky and sweaty and still slick with oil. The bottle has gotten away from them; they think some of it might have spilled out onto the sheets.

Their own head is still full of lingering sparks, sizzling through down to their stomach, as their thoughts seem intent upon replaying the image of Aili moving above them; of her hand, closing around them.

They press their lips to her temple.

“Alright?” they check.

Aili returns the kiss; her own lands somewhat vaguely against their jaw.

“That,” she says. “Was so good, I’m almost mad we put it off for so long.”

They let out a breathless laugh.

“Well. We can always make up for lost time,” they offer.

Aili murmurs something in agreement, and then manages to pull them even closer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Best LAID plans. Get it? Because they both finally got... 
> 
> Look, you leave me in charge of titles, you are going to have to deal with horrible puns and wordplay.
> 
> -Lotte


	20. Mamae

Fenris is nearly three, and he thinks that he might finally be getting the hang of all this baby business. There are still several obvious disadvantages, of course, but at least now he can voice his opinion in something other than tears and incoherent babbling. And he is capable of toddling around largely under his own power. His parents are indulgent in his likes, and careful of exposing him to things he has shown an aversion to, like an over-abundance of magic and loudly cooing elves with grabby fingers.

He trusts them. He had not had much choice in the matter to begin with, but now he finds himself more readily turning to them for aid when something is troubling him, or when he finds something is beyond the reach of his current physical limitations. He still does not like nap time though, no matter how many times Aili attempts to sing its praises.

He had been loath to admit it at first, but it feels like…family. Or at least, what he had always supposed family must feel like. Similar to his little ring of friends in Kirkwall, though Hawke was much less likely to try and force him to eat his vegetables. Under most circumstances.

Aili and Uthvir do keep things from him, though. He knows that some of his ignorance stems from his own limited understanding of the language, but he has taken great strides on that front since he first landed here. And he has restricted exposure to things like politics and even the vast majority of the social structures of Arlathan, as no one is keen to discuss such things with a toddler. But it is hard not to take note of the differences between places like the large beautifully decorated suite of rooms that his little friend Tonlen lives in with his parents, and the colorless, cramped apartments of his grandparents. 

He deeply suspects that Elvhenan may yet have more in common with Tenvinter than an ostentatious layer of false beauty, and a penchant for using questionably large amounts of magic. 

It has also come to Fenris’ attention that a fair number of people…are not very nice to his new mother.

At the very least, they tend to be dismissive of her. Even a fair few of the people in the Tower where they live seem apt to run her over when she is not carrying Fenris in her arms. Not to say that Uthvir is held in any particularly great esteem among their fellows either, but Aili gets brushed off by almost anyone outside their little ring of friends and acquaintances.

He cannot say that he likes it, but given the district she and her family appear to be from, perhaps it is no great surprise. 

Some things are the same, no matter where you go.

She never seems to let it get to her, though he supposes that it is not something she would want him to bear witness to. Even when she is called away in service to her lady, which he has gathered that most elves with young children are generally excused from, she does her best to keep a cavalier attitude about the whole thing. Radiating calmness and assurance, even though he is fairly certain there is a faint curl of worry reaching out in his direction.

This morning is much the same.

They have set him up in his little corner with his silly little shovel-sword and his practice dummy, and assumed that he would be too distracted to pay much attention to their conversation, but he hears enough to be concerned.

“Are you certain you don’t want to wear any of my gear?” Uthvir asks, holding a thick, clumsy-looking leather chest piece as Aili tugs on a heavy pair of foot wraps that go half way up her thighs, “It is much nicer. I even have a few pieces with defensive magic woven into them.”

“I’d get in more trouble for wearing armor beyond my station than I’m likely to garner from any of the snakes,” she huffs out, “They aren’t aggressive. Ghilan’nain would be allowed to keep them in the city, otherwise. They’re just…big.”

“And spiky,” they point out with a frown, “Anything your lady deems strong enough to act as a sentinel for her estate should not be taken lightly.”

“I’m not taking it lightly, you just worry too much,” she grins, coming to claim her leathers from them and moving in to steal a kiss in the process. Uthvir snags her about the waist and draws her closer, coming back for seconds, and Fenris resolutely turns his gaze back to his toys.

After more than two years of watching them awkwardly tripping over their affections, he is glad to see that they have finally worked things out. But there are times he wishes that he had not been granted a first row seat to their intimacy. They generally try to be discreet, but… an average two-year-old would not be capable of recognizing some of the muffled sounds he has heard through the walls when he was meant to be napping, either.

He hears Aili giggle, and a few moments later there are light footfalls behind him and she scoops him into her arms. Peppering his face with his own share of kisses. He feels himself let out a little puff of surprise and delight, before common sense and dignity catch up with him and he lets loose a squeal of dismay.

“You’ll be good for Nanae, won’t you?” she asks as she walks towards the door with him, Uthvir trailing close behind.

He nods his head once at her, leaning up into her shoulder and curling a fist into her collar.

“Ah-lee be good, too,” he mumbles, some of his concern seeping out of him despite his best efforts, “Be safe.”

She wraps her arms around him just a little bit tighter at that, offering him a hug before reluctantly passing him into Uthvir’s waiting arms.

“You’ve got nothing to worry about, little man,” Aili smiles at him, eyes soft, “Mama is good at her job, and there is nothing in the entire Empire that could keep me from coming home to you.”

Fenris can spot a platitude from a good distance off, but he nods at her again just the same, letting her plant another kiss against his brow and offering a little wave as she slips out the door and out of sight.

He feels his body tremble just slightly as a sound sneaks its way out of him. Something dangerously close to a sob.

“She’ll be alright,” Uthvir tells him, though they don’t seem any more assured of that than he is.

~

They spend the rest of the morning working on a puzzle. A present from Haninan, three dimensional, with just a touch of magic. When their work is finished, they have a tiny palace, just a little smaller than Fenris himself, complete with dozens of faintly glowing windows with minuscule figures visible within. He watches them move from room to room, going about fictional lives, content and carefree.

How pleasant it must be, to be forever trapped inside a perfect world.

The thought has him putting a foot through the stupid thing, and melting into a mess of tears shortly afterwards. Uthvir decides that is the signal for nap time, and Fenris cannot even refute the argument. He does at least manage to calm down enough to ask a question before he falls asleep.

“Ah-lee home soon?” he mutters somewhere in the vicinity of Uthvir’s neck.

“She has to move a lot of big animals into their new home,” they explain softly, “She probably won’t be back until dinner time.”

“Uvir go see,” he insists, thumping a little hand against their shoulder. Not that he wants Uthvir in the line of fire either, of course, but they seem to have much more in the way of armor and weapons training. If something goes wrong, they can do something. Ensure that they all get back here, where they belong. “Go to be making sure. Making it being safe.”

“And who is going to make sure you are safe while I am on this mission?” Uthvir wonders with a faint smirk.

Fenris only grumbles blearily in reply, having had similar discussions before. There is probably no way of convincing his caretaker that he would be perfectly capable of looking after himself for a few hours. He means to make a try for it anyway, but his eyelids have grown heavy, and before he is even completely aware of it, they slide closed against his will, and he drifts off to sleep.

However, his desires have apparently not gone entirely unheeded. When he wakes up from his nap, Uthvir washes him up a bit and gets him into the proper layers of clothing for going out and about. Far more than what would be necessary just for travelling down to the dining hall for lunch.

“Goin’ out?” Fenris wonders, tugging a bit at his sweater.

“Well…” Uthvir begins, sounding as though they are still not certain about the whole thing, “I was thinking that, perhaps after we had gotten a bit to eat ourselves, we might take Mama something for lunch.”

“Ya!” Fenris agrees readily. He does not generally like going out into the city, but he is willing to put up with it for this. And maybe seeing Aili interact with him will get her stupid supervisors to leave her alone for a while.

“You have to promise to stay with either me or Mama,” Uthvir says solemnly, “There are a lot of big animals around Ghilan’nain’s estate. No wandering off alone.”

“I be good!” he promises with a determined nod, “We all be stayin’ close together. Bein’ safe.”

Uthvir plants a kiss against his brow and he makes a small noise of complaint, but decides that it is a fair trade for the favor they are doing for him.

~

When they get to Ghilan’nain’s estate, a little basket of fruit and meat pies in tow, it is completely swarmed with people.

People and very large rainbow-colored snakes.

There seems to be a newly made habitat for them along one side of the courtyard, where a few elves are still moving in bags of sand, and some hollow logs for the creatures to coil up in when they want some shade. A half a dozen more are tinkering with a small, gently burbling pool in one corner which keeps sputtering great shoots of water at random intervals. Spraying hapless passersby.

The rest of the workers all seem to be tasked with physically moving the reptiles from their pens up near the entrance to the estate and settling them in their new homes. The smallest ones are nearly as long as Uthvir is tall, and their scales look as sharp and deadly as a thousand freshly forged daggers. Fenris is not certain how one might train a snake to be a sentinel, but he supposes that looking fearsome might be enough to deter a fair number of intruders.

The beasts are calm enough in their handler’s care, however. Enough that Fenris’ grip on Uthvir’s shirt slackens a bit when he finally catches sight of Aili on the far side of the courtyard. The snake in her arms is the color of a clear summer sky, streaked with emerald and peppered with purple spots, and it is so long that its tail is still on the ground behind her as she walks. It blinks at her with sleepy golden eyes, and if he did not know better, Fenris might think she was cooing at the thing.

“Mama!” he calls out loudly, forgetting himself in his relief.

Aili’s face turns sharply in their direction, and so does the snake’s, and both of their eyes go wide. She makes an odd jerking motion with her head, possibly trying for some kind of signal, since her hands are currently occupied. Uthvir takes a step away in response, but it is not enough.

The serpent jerks violently from her grasp, lunging towards the pair of them as if suddenly incensed.

Aili does her best to get her arms around the creature, ripping her poorly-made leathers to shreds in the process. Her left arm is a bright vivid red. A long gash tears its way across her cheek. She manages to pin the snake’s head against the smooth stones of the courtyard, magic burning in her hand.

She spares a moment to look back at Uthvir, thoroughly mussed and covered in scratches and streaks of blood. 

“Get Fenris out of here _now_!” she bellows through gritted teeth.

And without another word, Uthvir presses his face into their shoulder and beats a hasty retreat.

~

It is hard to say which of them is more distraught by the time they get back to June’s Tower. Though Fenris is admittedly more verbose with his unhappiness. Uthvir is clearly agitated, however, tearing their way through the churning passages until they track down the General in her office.

Haninan is there, and Fenris is momentarily relinquished to him as Uthvir has a quiet, hurried conversation with their superior, panic written into the very lines of their body. Fenris tries to listen in, but finds that his current babysitter is set on distracting him. Talking to him in that slow even voice that always seems to make him sleepy. Telling him a story about dragons or some other thing. Wholly unimportant right now, but after all that crying on the way here, he feels himself sagging in the man’s arms. Falling into a deep troubled sleep.

He wakes sometime later to the sound of a door closing gently. If the nest of blankets is any indication, Fenris would hazard a guess that Uthvir had curled up with him on the couch, waiting for Aili to come home.

He thinks he hears voices from her room, so he carefully scooches himself onto the floor and toddles his way over. But the door is shut and he is still too short to reach. He knocks gently, not wanting to rouse her if she is resting, wondering if they will let him see her if she is still hurt.

“Really, I’m fine,” he hears Aili say, “You don’t have to keep beating yourself up about it. I’m the one who insisted they were docile. I should have warned you to stay away from the estate. You had no way of knowing it would be able to sense the truth about your vallaslin.”

Uthvir says something unintelligible and he hears her laugh in reply. And then the laugh turns into a painful-sounding cough.

“Ah-lee?” he calls uncertainly. There is more muffled talking, shortly followed by footsteps coming to the door.

“Hello there, little one,” Uthvir says softly, “Are you hungry after your nap?”

Fenris shakes his head.

“Want Ah-lee,” he insists, “She okay?”

“Mama will be fine, but she needs to rest,” Uthvir tells him, lifting him up into their arms and walking further into the room, “Be gentle with her, alright?”

Fenris nods solemnly, tempted to make some remark about knowing better than to rough up someone recovering from an injury. But he supposes it is hardly the time to be ornery.

“She need nap times,” he asserts instead, “I just…wanna see her. Being okay.”

“I understand,” Uthvir murmurs, pressing a kiss into his hair that Fenris does not even attempt to ward off.

Aili is laying in her bed, absolutely drowning in blankets and pillows, no doubt at Uthvir’s insistence. She does not seem to have any sort of scars or bandages, but she holds herself awkwardly, trying to turn the pages of a book with only one hand. Her face lights up when she sees him, though.

“There’s my baby,” she declares, setting her book down and holding out a hand for him.

Uthvir sets him on the bed and he crawls over to her, allowing himself to be petted as he takes his own inventory of her person. He thinks a good portion of her skin on the left side of her body seems pink and flushed, and strangely…shiny. As if brand new.

He touches the hand she is not moving, and she winces slightly.

“I sorry,” he mutters quietly. And then he says it again, hiccupping through a fresh onslaught of tears, “I’m sorry, Mama.”

“Here now,” she coos, pulling him into an awkward, one-armed embrace, “You’ve got nothing to be sorry for, little heart. I promised I’d come home, didn’t I? And here I am.”

If he hadn’t been so childish, so needy with his desire to keep her close at hand, all of this might have been avoided. He has always liked to hoard his treasures, and it is hard to remember sometimes, that she is more than just his caretaker. That she has survived in this wretched city with its disparity and ugliness for who knows how long, and it has not broken her yet. He should trust her more, he thinks. There will be a time when he will have a more direct means of offering protection, if she needs it. But for now, he will have to put his trust in her, and in Uthvir, to keep their family safe.

Somehow, he thinks she can manage it, despite the odds.

She is, after all, his mother. 


	21. Mamae-Reprise

Aili’s recovery took several days, in the end. 

Fenris would have considered that to be pretty good, even with magical healing, in his own time; but he was aware that by the standards of the world he landed in, ‘several days’ was indicative of a _lot_ of damage having been done. No one told him directly, of course, but from overheard conversations, he managed to put together that Ghilan’nain’s serpents had secreted some kind of venom onto her, in addition to slicing her up.

The only bright side of it was that her injuries meant Aili was not called upon to work with the animals again. And in fact, Fenris had gathered that while some kind of problem with Uthvir’s vallaslin (and he wasn’t sure about that, but finding out more wasn’t much of an option at the moment), most people who knew about the incident assumed that the animals were naturally hostile towards children. So they were being moved back out of the city again; to be replaced by some other creature.

Fenris hoped Aili wouldn’t be expected to help with whatever _that_ turned out to be.

But he reminded himself that if she was, he would have to show more confidence in her ability to handle that herself.

In the meanwhile, though, her recovery also meant that Uthvir was home the entire time, since they were expected to help her and to look after Fenris. Circumstances aside, once the worst of the panic had eased it… actually wasn’t unpleasant. Uthvir fussed over Aili, and Fenris brought her some things he had made with Haninan’s toys, which she always seemed thrilled by. He napped in her bed with her, and sometimes Uthvir joined in. Always keeping things above board when Fenris was in the room (much to his relief), but Fenris also steered clear of the bathroom whenever both of his caretakers were in it, because… well.

He wasn’t _actually_ a three-year-old.

He also carefully avoided Uthvir’s room a few times, when he heard telling sounds drifting out from it.

Not that he was left unsupervised very often. But he had figured out how to escape the little playpen barricade that was supposed to keep him safely in the sitting room. He never did it where witnesses might catch him; that would probably put an end to it. The triumph of gaining a little more mobility was somewhat comforting, though. However long it was taking, things _were_ getting better.

Insofar as they could.

He tried not to think too hard about that. About the scope of things. About… what would _never_ get any better.

Sometimes he failed.

Aili and Uthvir made it easier, though. He was beginning to appreciate that, and that even if his condition wasn’t something they understood, some of their approaches to things weren’t entirely unhelpful. Being held and reassured, sang to and soothed, was no longer entirely unwelcome.

The third evening of Aili’s recovery, Uthvir placed Fenris into her room, while she was resting. They set him up with the little magical playpen around him – Fenris knew it was magical, even though it just looked like an assortment of brightly-coloured blocks – and gave him some of his softer toys.

“Mamae is sleeping. So shh, okay? Play quietly for a few minutes, while I go and get us dinner,” they instructed.

Ah. So _that_ was what was going on.

Fenris nodded in agreement.

“I watch Ah-lee,” he promised, and Uthvir smiled, and ran a hand over his head. Then they repeated their ‘shh’ gesture, before moving to check on the bed. Aili was a large lump in the middle of it, barely visible, and snoring slightly. Uthvir settled some more pillows around her, before they slipped out of the room.

Fenris looked at his toys, and sighed. Soft toys were a little boring. Even if some part of him found them weirdly pleasant to hold. He fiddled around with them for a bit, until he heard the familiar _thunk_ of the front door closing. And then, after a moment’s consideration, he got up and toddled over to the ‘playpen’ blocks. Turning several to face just the right combined direction deactivated them in very short order. Fenris kept going past them, trying not to feel too frustrated with his small, lumbering, clumsy little body, as he made his way up to the side of the bed.

Aili’s eyes were open.

He blinked.

And then he looked back towards the playpen, which was entirely in her line of sight.

…Oh.

“I knew it!” she crowed, sitting up in the bed. Fenris startled, but only a little, and more because the response seemed… positive? He blinked, as Aili pulled him up onto the bed.

“My clever baby! I _knew_ you were getting out of there somehow!”

“Uh… nooo…?” Fenris tried.

Aili snorted at him. And then winced, a little, as she pressed the wrong arm against him. Fenris moved, but she was already resettling herself; mindful of her injuries again.

“You figured out the blocks,” she said, and gently bopped his nose.

Fenris wrinkled it, and then batted her hand away.

“ _May_ be,” he grumbled.

Possibly the wrong approach to take. Aili smiled wider at him.

“Haninan’s going to be thrilled, he keeps saying you’re a little genius! Of course, Nanae and I knew you were smart, but that was amazing! My baby’s so good at figuring out patterns.”

She looked oddly proud about it, and even more inexplicably, _relieved_ about it. As if some worry of hers had just been slightly assuaged, somehow.

Fenris had, admittedly, only limited experience with parents. But he was pretty sure that babies breaking out of their designated areas was supposed to be… frowned upon, perhaps? Not encouraged?

He wasn’t used to having escape attempts met with overwhelming approval.

It made him think of Isabela. And Hawke. And Varric. And everyone else in his old life who had ever surprised him by approving of other escapes. But looking at what he’d done as something to be commended, rather than derided or discouraged.

And for the first time, in three years, the thought didn’t provoke an immediate rush of sorrow.

They would have liked Aili, he thought.

“I… do’d good?” he checked, voice coming out smaller than he expected.

Aili beamed.

“You did _brilliant,”_ she assured him, and reached for him again. When he offered no protest, she pulled him in for a cuddle, and pressed a few kisses to his cheeks. Fenris sighed, and then sighed again when the sound somehow transformed into something perilously close to a _giggle._

It was still a disaster, he reminded himself. They would doubtless look for some other way to secure him when their eyes couldn’t be on him at all times. But it could have gone worse, he supposed.

A few more kisses where pressed to his cheeks, before he started to protest.

“ _Ah-lee,”_ he huffed.

She relented, but still radiated happiness at him until Uthvir got back from their trip to the dining hall. At which point she began explaining what had happened, pointing at the blocks and even going so far as to ask Fenris to do it again. He sighed, but when Uthvir set into the playpen and turned it on, he dutifully got up, and re-did the pattern to turn it off again.

Then it was _Uthvir’s_ turn to tell him he was brilliant and amazing and…

Fenris was getting a little flustered about it, to be honest.

_They’re only impressed because they think you’re three,_ he reminded himself. But even so. Unexpected, overwhelmingly positive feedback wasn’t something he supposed he’d ever had much of a chance to get used to. He submitted to a brief cuddle from Uthvir, in turn, before the matter of food was finally broached again. Dinner ended up being eaten on Aili’s bed, with Fenris doing his best to avoid getting crumbs everywhere (to mixed success).

“Of course, this does beg the question of how we’re supposed to keep you in one place, now,” Uthvir mused, after the food was finished and they and Aili both seemed satisfied with the amount of praise they’d heaped onto him.

Fenris looked up from where he’d been glowering at the front of his shirt, and the applesauce he had managed to get all down the front.

“I good,” he asserted.

Long shot, he knew.

Aili took it the wrong way.

“ _Very_ good!” she assured him, while Uthvir looked amused.

He sighed.

“I no _pen,”_ he insisted. “Big now.”

That one almost made him wince. He was most definitely big _ger_ , but not ‘big’, and the sentiment he had been trying to convey – an overly optimistic attempt at convincing them that three was old enough to be alone – sounded exceedingly childish, once he’d said it.

The funny thing, Fenris though, was that an untended three-year-old really _wasn’t_ all that absurd. He could recollect children in Lowtown and Darktown especially, running around, playing in areas that Aili and Uthvir would probably consider too dangerous to even let Fenris down on the ground in. And perhaps that was more an issue of necessity than wisdom, but still. Being left alone in a room for a few hours didn’t strike him as all that perilous.

“Big and strong Fenris will be running the show in no time,” Uthvir assured him. “But _three_ is, I think, still a few years shy of being considered a proper adult.”

Fenris gave them an unimpressed look, and then began making his way down off the bed.

If they wanted to talk about him like he was a _child_ … which he was, but even so… he didn’t have to sit there and listen to it, at the very least. He headed back over to his toys, while his parents pretended that they didn’t find his grumpiness bizarrely endearing. Uthvir moved on the bed, and Fenris glanced over again at the sound – but they were only getting up to shift some of Aili’s pillows around. She murmured something to them, and winced a little.

His gaze moved to the skin of her arm. Now mostly indistinguishable from the rest of her.

_Patience,_ he reminded himself.

It was better to let them look after him.

…And trying to figure out how to escape whatever barricades Uthvir came up with next would probably be interesting, if nothing else.


	22. What Dreams May Come

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moar smut

It has been another long week when Uthvir finally manages to get home, a day and a half earlier than expected; exhausted, but pleased to have shaved their trip down again. The potentially compromised wards outside of one of June’s cities hadn’t been as badly damaged as feared, and had only taken them a few hours to repair.

The chambers are quiet when they get in. Lights dimmed, air still. Uthvir sags a bit in the entryway, and takes a moment to just breathe. Then they flop onto the bench by the door, and pull off their boots, and gloves. Their travel jacket, and leather gear. Stripping down to their leggings and tunic, and letting out a soft breath of relief as they are freed from confines of structured, protective clothing.

They run a hand through their hair, and stow their belongings underneath the bench – they can see to them more properly in the morning – before getting back up again.

Their first stop is the nursery. They open the door, quietly, and peer at Fenris’ crib. Their stare is met by a pair of wide-awake green eyes. A little puff of recognition and relief. Fenris reaches a hand towards them, and Uthvir slips quietly into the room, and obligingly lifts him up. His hair is getting longer. It sticks up, ruffled from the pillow, and Aili has put him in the green footie pyjamas she likes so much. The one with the leaf patterns on it.

“Oo,” Fenris says, frowning his little frown before he presses his face against their shoulder.

Uthvir rubs his back, and walks around the nursery with him for a bit. Taking the opportunity to assure themselves that he is alright, that no unforeseen disaster befell him in their absence. Not that they would expect Aili to let that happen, but still. They worry. They press a kiss to one of his little fists, and rock him a bit. He relaxes against them easily enough, apparently content to be held, until at last his eyes droop shut.

They tuck him back in, once the weight of sleep falls over him. Kissing his cheek, and watching him for a moment more, before they tiptoe back out and shut the door behind them again.

One down, one to go.

They make their way to Aili’s room.

Empty.

On a hunch they open the door to their own room, and sure enough, there is an Aili-sized lump in their bed. Uthvir walks around to the side, and takes in her sleeping face for a moment. She’s sprawled into the middle of the mattress, hugging their pillow with one arm, with the blankets tangled all around her legs and a piece of hair stuck in the side of her mouth. Reaching out, they gently brush it away from her face. And then they strip out of their tunic and leggings, down to their smalls, before picking the side that seems to have the most space left to it, and climbing in.

They are not surprised when, a moment later, Aili rustles around and rolls towards them. They have slept with her enough times by now to become accustomed to her night cuddling. She slings an arm over them, and they mostly just expect her to do that thing where she locks her arms around their waist and buries her face against their chest. Maybe a little sleepy murmuring, or some drool.

But then she seems to pause, and after a second, starts patting them down, like she’s trying to feel the outline of their shape in the blankets. She turns her face towards them, and they see her blink sleepily at them in the dark. Her eyes barely reflecting some of the false starlight from the enchanted windows.

“Hey,” Uthvir offers, softly.

Aili pats at their chest, and lets out a soft ‘oh’ in reply. Her hand slips under the mussed up blankets, trailing down their skin, and settles at the ties for their smallclothes. She makes a displeased sound, and to Uthvir’s surprise, immediately starts untying them. Slipping one of her legs over theirs as she pulls the string at the side open, and then yanks them off and tosses them away. A moment later, her hips rock against theirs, and she rolls fully on top of them.

…Well, then.

“Good evening to you, too,” they offer, right before she presses a sloppy kiss to their lips. Her mouth is warm, and she smells like sleep, and tastes like the peppery mouth rinse she sometimes uses before bed. Her tongue presses between their lips and her hips grind pointedly downwards, as she buries her fingers in their hair, and momentarily halts their mental processes. Lust and affection, and a fuzzy kind of desire, suffuse the air around her.

Uthvir has to dig one of their arms around through the tangled sheets before they can start to hold her back. She is wearing one of their shirts, they realize. An older one, worn thin and past the point of having usable enchantments; suffused with their scent, and softened by over-use. They had thought it thrown away. Apparently not. The material is flimsy and soft over Aili’s warm skin, as they settle their hands on her back, and adjust to the persistent, devouring kisses she is treating them to. Bolder than her usual ones. It seems she has gotten over the nervousness their first kiss inspired, as she presses her tongue into their mouth, and angles their head to a position which, it seems, she prefers.

Her hips grind down against them again. No underthings for her, it seems, but after a moment she makes a sound of vague complaint. Then she pulls back to look at them.

“Why aren’t you…” she begins, frowning. Before Uthvir can process what she’s asking, though, she grinds down on them _again,_ pressing damp heat against their own sensitive, currently ‘inwards’ set genitals, and summoning up an unexpected spark of visceral heat. Her soft flesh presses insistently against theirs, and she inhales, breathing in another ‘oh’.

Uthvir can think of some better angles for this kind of activity. But when they try to move Aili grasps their shoulders, halting them as her expression turns wickedly thoughtful, and she repeats the motion. They swallow, this time more ready for the pleasant rush of it, and try to angle their hips upwards to meet her motion a little better. But they have barely started to work up a rhythm before Aili shakes her head. Mumbling something they don’t catch to herself, and then abruptly shoving the blankets around them to one side.

Uthvir shivers, just a little, as their skin is exposed to the cooler air.

“My heart?” they ask.

Aili smiles, and leans back in to kiss them. And then she reaches behind them, and smooshes and extra pillow underneath their head.

“I am going to use my mouth,” she decides. “You just lay there and keep your legs open.”

…That is certainly more assertiveness than they are accustomed to, but it is, apparently, not a turn off to have Aili boss them around a little. They raise an eyebrow, but obligingly spread their legs a bit wider. Aili kisses the bridge of their nose, and then their lips, before she moves with surprising confidence to settle between their legs.

She has performed such acts before, of course. Only with their penis, though, and while they have no objections to her ministrations by any means, typically she takes a moment to examine them first, and stops a few times to ask if she is doing it right, or express at least _some_ nervousness.

So Uthvir is not expecting it when she presses their mouth almost immediately to them, and slips her tongue right over their flesh, grasping their hips and letting out a surprised hum. She does pull back, but only for a moment.

“Tastes the same,” she murmurs, before devouring them with the same unabashed possessiveness she had kissed them with.

Her tongue presses through their folds, working them over with obvious interest. Aili runs it over their clit, and then presses it into their entrance, before she seems to get an idea and then starts sucking at the heated cluster of their nerves. Uthvir gasps, struggling against the urge to clamp their thighs around her and pull her in closer. She gets, amazingly, even bolder as she goes, pushing one of their legs further to the side so that she can bring her fingers into play. Uthvir’s breaths turn ragged as she curls her touch inside of them, licking and sucking until her tongue feels alike a searing brand, and they can only call her for her as they come. Unexpectedly overwhelmed.

Aili gives them one more long, thoughtful lick, and then pulls back, and wipes at her mouth.

Uthvir’s chest heaves as they blink back stars.

With an approving murmur, Aili climbs back up towards them, and kisses them again. Letting them taste themselves on her lips.

She pats their abdomen.

“Change shape?” she asks. “And take me? Rough, please.”

They blink, as their brain tries to catch up with that. A startled sound escapes them.

“Rough?” they ask.

“Mm,” Aili hums, nuzzling at the side of their neck. “Possessive. Like you do sometimes, when you really want me.”

“I always really want you,” they assure her, swallowing, even as the heat in them starts to build up again. They shift their hips and obligingly change their shape, caressing Aili’s side and considering the matter. They can certainly do roughness, though they have limits. But if it is something that they have done _before,_ then that makes things easier. Those times when they got a bit carried away. Heat of the moment, or intensity of the situation. Uthvir knows they have a possessive streak. They try not to over-indulge it, but…

They slip a hand between Aili’s legs, and bury a few fingers into her heat. Testing. She is aroused and relaxed, though, slick, and it only takes a little care to get three digits buried to the knuckle in her. Her hips shift against them, and she bites her lip. And then nips at their jaw.

_“Uthvir,”_ she pleads.

They let out a soft growl, and roll them over. Wrapping her legs around their waist, and kissing her as thoroughly as she had kissed them. They line themselves up and press into her, feeling only a bit of stretch and resistance, as Aili gasps and tightens her grip on their shoulders. Her warmth enveloping them. They reach up and pull her hands away from them, pinning her wrists down to the mattress. A whispered spell has the bedsheets binding them, as Uthvir’s mouth slides to the side of her neck, and they let their nails dig into her hips a little, angling to go in deep as they pull back and then thrust inside of her again.

She gasps. The air sparks with pleasure.

“I missed you,” Uthvir admits. Their voice is low against her skin, and she shivers as they pull back and thrust in again. “My Aili. I thought about this, while I was gone. Thought about all the ways I could be with you. Holding you, hearing you, seeing you. Fucking you.”

They have to be careful, they think, or they will come too soon. Aili’s legs tighten around them, her reply a simple, breathless utterance of their name. They move their mouth up towards the sensitive skin of her ears as they set a fierce pace, then. Enough to make the mattress strain, and her small, soft breasts bounce against the inside of her stolen shirt, as they press their teeth to the shell of her ear – not hard enough to break the skin – and focus on taking her as thoroughly as they can. One of their hands slides between her and the mattress, lifting her hip up and tilting the angle in a way that makes her gasp when they thrust into her again.

They feel her inner walls clenching around them, coming in a rush, and it takes every last ounce of restraint they have to keep going. They let a little bit of themselves drift back, struggling as Aili squeezes them, so delightfully warm and soft. But they manage to hold off on coming, to keep thrusting, as she pants and writhes and breaks one hand free of the bedsheet restraints to clutch at them again.

When she comes a second time, though, they are lost. Spilling themselves inside of her, calling her name in turn, as the world goes still and bright with pleasure. They can feel the points of her fingernails pressing against their back, the cock slick with her heat, warm and buried to the hilt. Her breasts crushed against their chest as they hold her so closely.

Then Aili sighs, and nuzzles them again.

They undo the spell still holding her other wrist to the mattress, and kiss the side of her neck. A light push of her hand has them rolling off of her, but she doesn’t seem to want them to go far. She grasps one of the blankets she had unceremoniously thrust aside earlier, and pulls it over the both of them; tucking herself up underneath their chin, as she wraps her arms around them.

“I should get us cleaned up,” they whisper, before kissing her temple.

She mumbles something about it not mattering, apparently content to sleep in a mess of their own bodily fluids.

And, well.

Uthvir _is_ very tired.

They suppose they can take care of it in the morning.

They wrap their arms around her in turn, and bury their nose into her hair. Quite the welcome home, they think.

~

In the morning, they open their eyes to the sight of Aili staring quizzically down at them.

They smile, caught for a moment by the light in her hair, and the bright, familiar colour of her gaze. They feel a little bit stiff from their hike and subsequent… _activities_ last night. A little sticky, and uncomfortably itchy in a few places, where certain things have dried against their skin. But nothing a thorough bath won’t fix, and they are also delightfully sated.

Aili’s cheeks darken, all in a rush, and she raises both hands and covers her face.

“Oh no,” she says.

Uthvir sits up a little, suddenly worried.

“What?” they ask.

“You – I thought I was _dreaming,”_ she says.

It takes them a minute to catch on to what she means. Dreaming…?

…Oh.

_Oh!_

Well. They suppose that explains the uncommon confidence and assertiveness.

They are not sure whether they should laugh or apologize, though. That request for roughness… perhaps they should not have…?

But when Aili peers through her fingers again, that is not what she sees fit to object to.

“I was so _bossy,”_ she laments. “I’m sorry!”

Uthvir cannot help but laugh a little, then.

“I did not mind,” they assure her.

She covers her face again, and shakes her head a little. Uthvir leans in, and wraps their arms around her. It only takes her a moment to seize the opening, just the same, and she hides her face against them rather than behind her hands.

“Was I too rough?” they check. “Did I hurt you?”

She shakes her head against them.

“No! No, that was… um. That was very good,” she assures them, face still absolutely _flaming._ “Did it make you uncomfortable…?”

“No,” they offer, in return. “I was a little surprised, but it was all very pleasurable.”

It takes a moment. But gradually, Aili starts to relax against them. She lets out a deep breath, and squeezes her arms around their waist, and presses a kiss to the patch of skin nearest to her mouth. Closing her eyes, as Uthvir holds her for a bit.

“All of it was pleasurable?” she checks.

“All of it,” they confirm.

She lets out a thoughtful hum, and trails a hand down to their lower back.

“Does this mean I should tell you to lie back and spread your legs more often?” she wonders, a definite note of mischief in her voice, now.

Uthvir chuckles.

“Maybe not _all_ the time,” they admit. “But every once in a while is fine by me.”

Aili nods against them, apparently satisfied with that.

“Good to know,” she decides.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What dreams may COME. Because they...
> 
> Yeah.
> 
> *fignerguns*  
> -Lotte


	23. Splish Splash

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sing songs* Serahlin and Tonlen are Scurvaliciousbay's! (still!)

Fenris will be turning five soon.

They always have a bit of a celebration for his birthday. Or at least, for the day Aili had found him out in the snow. They have no idea when he was actually born, of course, but it hardly matters. Fenris isn’t likely to remember when his real birthday is, and Aili finds it almost fitting to celebrate the day they had discovered each other. The day they became a family.

Five seems like an important number, though. Half a decade. He is long-limbed and lean. Running and jumping all over the place, as though he’s training for some sort of triathlon. Old enough to speak in complete sentences. Carefully measured out and meticulous. Steady. As her son seems to be with so many things. It seems so important to him to be independent and understood.

He will be old enough for tutors before long.

Fenris will enjoy that, she thinks. He has always liked the reading room. Working out the puzzles Haninan likes to get for him. Testing the limits of his mind as well as his body.

His magic will be showing up in full force, too. And that has her more worried than anything. There have been a few incidents with some sparks from his fingers and…

It did not go well.

Which is why the gift she intends to give him is meant to combine magic with something he loves.

Reading.

Fenris can already get through some of the simpler books on his own, but he is always pressing himself for more. More letters. More words. More meanings.

Writing seems to present more of a challenge. His fingers do not seem to be as dexterous as he would like. And every now and then, she finds that he has filled pages and pages with unintelligible scrawling. There seemed to be a sort of pattern to it, and she had initially wondered if perhaps her had made up a language of his own. The dark expression on his face when she had asked, coupled with what seemed to be a rising swell of grief, had dissuaded her from pressing further, though. 

Maybe it is some secret game he has with Tonlen, and he had not wanted her spoiling their fun.

The tablet she had found on a scouring mission with Uthvir through piles of potential treasures bound for the incinerators, had seemed perfect. It had clearly been made for another child at some point. Its surface is smooth and waxy, the frame and attached stylus inscribed with runes meant to project pictures of the words written into the board. Not intended for anything so complex as a scene from a novel, but more for simple sentences and word recognition.

Aili has managed to clean it up a bit. There was one corner in particular that got a little too close to one of the huge fires and ended up badly singed. And she added a few touches of paint here and there. Some leaves and flowers. Nothing fancy.

Now if only she could figure out the way to rejuvenate the magic on the runes.

It’s not _completely_ broken as it is, but the pictures do not always work, and when they do, they tend to be blurry. Or flicker a lot. She can do better. …Probably.

Or at least…that was what she had thought a week ago.

She flops back onto her mattress after an hour of fruitlessly tinkering with the worthless thing. Frustrated and slightly singed in a few places from one attempt that had go particularly awry. The unpleasant sensation of defeat beginning to curdle in her gut.

Perhaps she should have scraped together her credits and gone shopping with Serahlin, after all.

Aili heaves a weary sigh. Maybe a bath will help clear her head and come up with some sort of solution.

She opts for some soothing scented bath oils, as opposed to her usual preference for bubbles. She massages her lavender soap into her hair, and lets herself soak. The warm water and pleasant floral smells easing some of the worries on her mind as well as the tension in her muscles.

After about fifteen minutes, she hears the door open, a rush of cool air sweeping into the room, sending a shiver down her spine.

“I thought you weren’t supposed to get back until after lunch?” she hums, eyes still pressed closed as she lounges against one side of the bathing pool. 

“The merchants were not as difficult to haggle with as anticipated,” Uthvir tells her, coming to sit at the edge of the pool. Dipping their legs into the warm water.

“Your pants will get wet,” Aili notes, sloshing over and folding her arms across their lap. Tucking her head somewhere around their navel, sudsy hair and all, before heaving a deep sigh.

“It is a sacrifice I am willing to make,” they reply in a low voice, scraping the sharp points of their nails lightly through damp curls. “Is everything alright? Where is Fenris?”

“Serahlin insisted that he needed a new outfit for his birthday party, so she offered to take him shopping while I got some more work done on some of the other preparations,” she mumbles into the crook of her arm. “I don’t think he was especially pleased by the prospect, but he didn’t put up a fight, either. Tonlen went with them, so expect our son to be covered in glitter when he comes home.”

“Noted,” they smirk. They sit together in silence for a few moments, simply enjoying the bath and the pleasure of one another’s company. Uthvir still idly playing with a few strands of her hair.

“Was there something else?” they wonder, “You seem…contemplative.”

“I still can’t get the tablet to work properly,” she admits with a grumble.

“Perhaps you should ask Haninan for advice?” Uthvir suggests.

“I suppose I’ll have to,” Aili says with another long sigh, “I guess I was just… hoping I could fix it for him on my own. Since I couldn’t really afford much with my credit limit. Nothing he doesn’t already have. Clothes and simple toys. I just…wanted to give him something he might get excited about having.”

“You are his mother,” Uthvir points out gently, “You give him things every day. You would do anything for him. He knows that. The act of physically giving him a present on his birthday is mostly a symbol. He will treasure it, no matter what it is, because it is a gift from _you_.”

“He’s _five_ ,” she reminds them, “Even if he is a very conscientious five. He still gets bored by the same things that normal children do. And a shoddy present is its own sort of symbol. And not a very nice one.”

She tips her head back to peer up at them, the faintest traces of worry beginning to curl into the air surrounding her.

“I…don’t want Fenris to have the sort of life that I do,” Aili tells them, her eyes wide and slightly pleading, “Haninan likes him, I think. And the General and Dorian have taken an interest in his future, too. Those are all good signs. And he’s so smart, I know he could do all sorts of things if he put his mind to it. But…you’ll still look out for him, right? Even when he’s reached his majority and he has to take vallaslin? I don’t know how often I’ll be able to keep an eye on him if I’m living back in the Lower City again…”

“You do not even have to ask,” Uthvir assures her, their brows furrowing slightly, “But don’t you…want to keep living here?”

Aili makes a face at them, scrunching up her nose a bit.

“Well, I mean, of course I do,” she huffs, “It’s not like this is just some nice set of rooms. This is my home now. It’s where we’re raising our son. And even if he moves out when he gets older, you’ll still be here, and it isn’t like I’d get tired of seeing you every day. I love you. But that doesn’t mean my supervisors are going to just-”

Her sentence is cut off by a very sudden and fervent collision with Uthvir’s mouth.

They tug her up a bit farther, sliding an arm around her shoulders and burying their free hand in her hair. Their tongue presses between her lips, warm and insistent. Fierce affection and desire seeping into the air surrounding them like the flower-scented steam from the bath.

Aili makes a startled sound in the back of her throat that quickly dissolves into a quiet moan. Still, it seems like enough for Uthvir to regain a bit of their composure. They draw away a little, breathing hard. Eyes still dark and wanting.

“I am sorry,” they pant, “I did not mean to just… If you want to continue your bath I can-”

That is as far as they get before Aili gets her arms around them and bodily drags them into the bathing pool. Clothes and all.

It is not especially deep, and some of the water sloshes out with the impact. Aili laughs into their mouth, hitching a leg over their hip and tugging them closer. Completely unrepentant.

“I’m not sure how much time we’ve got,” she murmurs between kisses, her fingers searching for the fastenings of their outfit. Namely their pants. And Uthvir is not entirely certain whether the comment is about higher-ranking followers forcing her to move out at some point, or the likelihood of their son walking in on them.

“Then we will make the most of what we have,” they reply, nipping at her lips.

Their hands slide down her body, leaving little trails of magic in the wake of their fingertips. Her skin is slick and soft, warmed from the bath, and now flushed with the heat of her rising desires. She hisses, breath catching for an instant before retaliating with a few lightly scraping bites along the side of their neck. Still struggling to get at more of their skin.

She seems to be having particular trouble with their belt.

“Why do you always have so many layers?” she complains breathlessly, voice cracking as their fingers find her center and begin lightly teasing her.

“Perhaps I am merely fending off the cold?” Uthvir suggests with a low hum. They pull her leg a little higher, angling their fingers in such a way that when they press back into her, any answer she might have made is stolen away by a gasp of pleasure. The smirk they press against her ear is verging on devious.

“Are you cold right _now_?” Aili wonders, slipping her hands down the back of their partially opened pants and giving their backside a firm squeeze.

“Never, with you in my arms,” they reply easily, tilting their hips against her a bit more firmly. Trying for a bit more friction.

She snorts at the sentiment, but draws them in for a kiss all the same, attempting to tug their pants down and press them closer all at once. They nibble at the sensitive point of her ear, increasing the speed of their hand as she twists her hips to meet them. Desperately seeking an end.

“ _Uthvir_ ,” she rasps out, nearly pleading. Fingernails digging into the meat of their shoulders. Eyes pressing shut as she struggles to hold on.

Their hips shift forward in response, clearly eager for some relief of their own.

Uthvir’s hand gripping the edge of the pool slips.

Aili slips.

There is a very large splash, and suddenly half the water in the bathing pool has been sprayed across the bathroom floor.

“Mama?” Fenris’ voice calls uncertainly from the other room.

“Everything’s fine, little heart,” she calls back to him once she’s regained a bit of her equilibrium. She shoots Uthvir a glance, clearly trying very hard not to laugh. “Nanae just dropped something in the bath, that’s all. We’ll be out in a few minutes.”

“It seems our time is up,” Uthvir sighs, sounding a bit amused themselves. Getting up out of the bath and drying their clothes with a wave of their hand before turning around to help Aili. Offering her a hand and a towel.

“Not if I have anything to say about it,” she grins at them, wiping herself off a little before weeping in for a kiss. Sweet with traces of lingering heat. “We can have as much time as we want. For everything.”

She pauses to look around at the mess in the bathroom.

“However, I think next time we should try for more of a…seated position?”

“Agreed,” Uthvir chuckles.


	24. Branching Out

Fenris does not recollect much about being a teenager the first time.

He has some foggy memories. Childhood is clearer; his teenage years tend to evade him much more, and from what he _has_ gleaned of them, there is probably a reason for that. He does not think they were a very pleasant time in his first life.

The second round also presents a great many challenges.

It is the most frustrated he has felt since he first arrived in this strange place – more like another world than the distant past. He is more like himself than he has been in years. He makes gains in height and mobility, in athleticism and articulation. As his majority approaches, he looks with apprehension towards the concept of taking on the _markings_ of an elven magister – “leader” – but the other time travellers, the ones who have been here for hundreds of years already, assure him that there will be options.

Still.

Even the illusion of being owned again is not something he looks forward to.

Unfortunately, though, an increase in his ability does not translate much into an increase in his independence. Fenris thinks that it should. He is not a real teenager, of course, but even if he were, do not most teenagers begin to take on their adult responsibilities at this age? From what little he recollects, as a teenager he was well into his working days, and often went places and did things without supervision. He has a memory of running an errand to the market. A fairly innocuous one. Just, himself, walking down the street on a sunny day, retrieving a basket of ripe tomatoes at the behest of the kitchens.

His parents do not think fifteen is old enough for Fenris to go places and do things largely by himself, however.

“If you want to go to the market, then we will go to the market,” his Nanae says, reasonably, but Fenris is not looking to simply go to the market. Being at the market is not the end he wishes to achieve; it is being there of his own accord. It is doing something _himself._

He does not know how to explain it without sounding as if he is rejecting his parents, however.

“Nevermind,” he snaps, instead, and turns on his heel, and stalks back towards his room.

“Fenris-” his Mama calls after him. He waves at her to show that he is not angry, though his frustration is too palpable for him to contain. At least they let him go, although he does not know how long they will leave him be for. By agreement, his room is his own space, now, and his parents do not enter it without at least knocking – unless it is an emergency. But it is just a square box, in the end, however prettily it has been decorated. And Fenris misses having… space.

Much more space.

He lets out a heavy breath, and sinks into the chair nearest to his door.

Absurd. He is being absurd, he knows. His room is not small. It is roughly the same size as Hawke’s room in the Amell manor house had been; the same size as the master in his derelict mansion, as well. Though Fenris had never slept in that room, of course. He had let it to turn to must and mold, until the bedsheets were disintegrating and the carpets so thick with dust that he could no longer tell what colour they had once been.

His own room is much different, though, all matters of size put aside. He has an enchanted window, which takes up an entire wall, and looks out over a distant patch of river. Somewhere miles and miles away. He has watched otters swim up and down it, and seen wild animals of all description come to drink from it. Close enough to touch, it would seem, and some part of him is still unnerved by the magic behind that. But most of him has simply given up his disquiet through sheer exhaustion. Magic is everywhere, here. There is no reprieve. A man who must live in the sea will either adapt to the water, or drown, and Fenris…

Fenris is past drowning, most days.

The window has shutters, anyway, for when he prefers to simply be in a box. His bed has thick curtains, and his closet is the size of a small room itself, and he has many shelves of many things. Racks of weapons and chests of old toys, rows of books and surfaces covered in projects and hobbies he has attempted to take on. Gifts and things from his friends and his parents’ friends. He has an entire segment of closet devoted to Tonlen’s enthusiastic efforts to help Fenris ‘meet aesthetic guidelines’. Tonlen actually _is_ a teenager, so Fenris is more inclined to indulge his efforts than those of most adults. He is just a boy, with a very odd friend, who tries and helps him the best ways he can.

There is not much fault to be found in that.

Fenris has a less simplistic view of many other people in this accursed empire.

He sits, and thinks Varric would tell him that he was brooding, as he taps his fingers restlessly against the arm of his chair.

Fifteen years.

He has been here for fifteen years. And as much as he knows he owes to the General and Dorian – he is neither a fool nor an ingrate – the reality of both their existences is terrifying in context. They have been here for far, far longer. And this world is deplorable. It is an Imperium, for all that it might belong to elves rather than magisters. There are movements. Fenris knows that full well. And change does not happen overnight, and he knows that the General is not eager to cast aside one empire only to see another rise up in its place. That is concerned over Veils and distant corners of the map, Dread Wolves and old gods that are older even than the ones Fenris might have named before all of this. But he thinks that time has turned her gaze too far-sighted. And Dorian’s, too, though Fenris has less faith that the man ever saw things very well to begin with.

Things cannot go on as they are. His parents are part of the effort to change it, and Fenris knows how dangerous that can be. He does not want to sit and idly wait, to spend centuries learning random skills and watching the giant, greedy leech of an empire continue to glut itself on the blood of people like him. People like _anyone,_ really. He knows he has made that mistake before, and there are still days when he thinks magic is the worst thing to have ever come about in the world. Even knowing that it is probably part of what _made_ the world. But whatever resentments linger in him, he would like to think that he has at least grown weary enough – maybe even wise enough – to keep his focus on enemies that can actually be defeated.

Magic is, was, and will be. Railing against it is like fighting the weather.

Assailing empires is not quite so futile.

Fenris wants to see to it himself. He wants to go and do things. _Immediate_ things. He does not fear the decline of the elvhen people, not the way that the General does – not when he sees it all around himself, manifesting in the form of elves who are not magisters, but might as well be. And he does not see a need to redeem that which is condemnable, as Dorian does.

He sees his parents. Fighting. Striving. Wanting to change a world that constrains and threatens them in ways that it should not. He sees his grandparents, living in their little house in the lower districts of the city; behind grey walls and in sparse rooms, hiding monsters made by a madwoman who would kill them for the insult of daring to care about that which she has rejected. He knows it could be worse. He knows it very well.

But… to his surprise, all things considered, he has still not given up on the prospect of it being _better._

He can hardly do much of anything, though, if he must always have ‘adult supervision’ for all things.

His fingers are still tapping the arm of his chair, scowl fixed in place as he watches the river through his ‘window’, when he hears a familiar knock at the door.

Fenris lets out a breath.

“Come in,” he allows.

The door opens, and his Mama pads quietly across the floor.

Sometimes, Fenris thinks it is unfair that he cannot recollect his first mother nearly as well. The woman who raised him, who was part of the reason why he took on his markings, who died before she could ever see what he became. Whether she would have despaired or approved, he does not know. She was his mother, but, the best he can do is recollect the ghost of a laugh, and worn fingers on his brow, and a homespun dress he thinks she often wore.

He does not hold that against his Mama, though. More against himself, when it comes to it. But his Mama is clearer. Sometimes he wonders if they were alike. Both hard workers, he thinks, treated too unfairly by too many things. But beyond that, he is unsure.

She settles into the chair beside his.

“When I was fifteen, I spent a lot more time running around than you do,” she tells him.

Fenris blinks.

Whatever he was expecting her to say, it was… not that.

“Did you?” he asks, for lack of a better response.

She nods.

“Your grandparents were given leave for time off when I was a baby, but only for about five years. And even then, they were often conscripted for special events or jobs or tasks set out by higher ranking elves. When I was old enough for tutors, they began their duties again, and they worked hard to try and earn incentives to get me good things. Better clothes, better tools, better instructors. There was always someone around who wanted to watch me, but as I got older I figured out how to use that to my advantage. I would tell one adult I was with another, and then sneak off and go and do whatever I felt like doing.”

Fenris lets out a breath.

“Were you ever caught?” he wonders.

His Mama smiles.

“Plenty of times,” she admits. “But what could my parents do? They still had to work. I would go to my lessons, too, I liked learning new things. It was just that sometimes, I would also sneak off to places I knew I wasn’t supposed to be. I tried figuring out how to climb rooftops, and find old tunnels, and shortcuts, and things like that around then. My parents worried, but… doing that sort of thing was how I met your Nanae,” she muses. “It was how I found you, too. Parents are supposed to worry. Sometimes, though, we have to… let you figure out some things for yourself.”

Fenris blinks, and turns more fully towards her. Hesitant, but hopeful.

“Does this mean I can go to the market by myself?” he asks.

His mama sucks in a long breath, and then lets it out again.

“Maybe not the market,” she says, carefully. “It is very busy, and you know you sometimes still get overwhelmed by a lot of activity.”

That is… true, Fenris supposes. The market may have been ill-considered, drawn up as a concept more from his memories than from practical thinking.

“But,” she continues. “Your grandmother has been talking about wanting to teach you hunting, soon. I know you had an interest in that, and since your dance instructor proved… uh…”

“Insufferable?” Fenris suggests.

She lets out a breath.

“He meant well,” she reminds him. “But alright, yes, he was insufferable. It means you do have some extra hours in the week, so, we were thinking that might be a good way to fill them. Your grandmother’s schedule is still very full, but she wants to make time. And your nanae and I were thinking that _maybe,_ if you wanted to, you could go this afternoon and ask her to teach you in person. By yourself.”

Fenris sits up a little straighter. The route to his grandparents’ one is actually further than the one to the market, although it is, in fact, much quieter. And he knows most of the people along it, by now. He doubts he would really be alone. There are spirits in the area who are familiar to his parents and their friends, and his grandparents too, of course, and in the afternoon, there will be plenty of people about, even if it is not to the levels of a marketplace crowd.

But he would be _on_ his own. It would be a starting point. And perhaps it is sad, how desperately he wants that taste of independence again.

It is too visceral to ignore, however.

“I will go,” he decides, immediately, standing up from his chair.

“Wait, wait,” his mama cautions, and he almost loses control over the reflexive burst of frustration he feels. She cannot possibly rescind the offer _now._ But her hand is already in a placating gesture, as she rises, too. “There are some ground rules. This is a first time for us as well as you, so, no detours. Go straight to your grandparents’, and then come straight back. If they want to walk you back, let them, we haven’t had a chance to talk about this with them yet, and they worry, too. If you take longer than an hour, Nanae and I are going to come looking for you. And if you get into trouble, run straight home. Or to your grandparents’, if their house is closer. Or to Serahlin and Adannar’s, or the barracks, or Ess’ place if any of them are nearer. Get to safety, is the idea. Do not talk to anyone you don’t already know. And use your best judgement.”

Fenris sighs. One would think he was walking through untamed woods, and not a city full of people with a remarkable disinclination towards mistreating ‘children’.

His mama reaches over, and smooths an invisible wrinkle from his tunic.

“I will do all of that,” he agrees. A part of him – the part of him that might actually _be_ fifteen, in some sense – chafes. And another, deeper part of him still recoils from the sense of being constrained. But he is a grown adult, in truth. He knows how to be patient. His parents are not his owners, they are his caretakers, and they are worried for his safety. Not that he will escape to freedom.

“Oh, and do not try and climb any rooftops,” his mama continues, as she follows him out of his room. “I know I told you that story but that was not an endorsement to it, it is very dangerous and you should mostly just stick to the main roadways. Please.”

“Noted,” Fenris agrees.

She frowns, a little.

His nanae is waiting out in the hall, in their usual manner of pretending to examine the tool chest near to his room, as if they are not, actually, hovering.

“Are you going, then?” they ask him. Their casual tone is more successful than their casual hovering.

“Yes,” Fenris confirms.

They nod, not surprised.

“Alright then. You… be safe. And look both ways before you cross any streets. And if you change your mind and come right back, no one will be bothered about it,” they assure him, reaching over and brushing some of his hair back from his face. Fenris resists the urge to sigh, again. Or attempts to, anyway – he fails, after a moment, and simply gives in, slouching his shoulders but managing his best reassuring smile.

“It is just down the road,” he reminds them.

“Mm,” they murmur, in agreement, but with no enthusiasm. “But be careful, just the same. Stay away from the ditches, the magical run-off from Ghilan’nain’s estate has been more potent than usual.”

Fenris shakes his head.

“There are no ditches by the main roadway,” he reminds them.

“Yes. Good,” they agree.

At this rate, Fenris is going to have to keep his _own_ activities from his parents, if ever actually gets around to doing anything productive. Somehow he doubts another ten years will calm them down very much. He has seen Serahlin and Adannar with their grown son, after all, and Ileth has been living independently for as long as Fenris has been alive.

He nearly gets out through the front door, before his nanae thrusts one of their coats hurriedly at him.

“It is colder out there,” they say.

The leather is smooth, and bronze, and there are large buttons on the front, and triangular patterns up the arms. Fenris relents, and puts on the coat, and _finally_ manages to get out into the tower hallway. He pretends not to notice his parents watching him make his way down the corridor from their door. He has moved independently through the tower many times, at least, to go and attend lessons with the tutors who live here.

His steps still falter, just a little, when he turns down the spiral staircase to the next level, and passes through the eluvian at the base of it, and comes out onto the next floor.

But it is not from fear, or dependence.

It is from the sense of something deep inside of him unclenching, just a little.

On his own, he straightens up, and then sets out again.


	25. Big Brother

Fenris holds his breath when Aili plops his new baby sister into his arms. Scared to shift or do anything too suddenly that might upset or disturb her rest. Really, he thinks putting her down in her crib would be the safer option, but he does not want to voice his discomfort to his mother, who seems absurdly happy for someone with spit up covering half of her shirt. 

“I’ll be right back,” she promises, likely sensing his awkwardness, “I just want to grab something clean, and maybe rinse this off a little. Believe it or not, old regurgitated milk and formula are not the most pleasant of smells.”

“I believe it,” Fenris replies quietly, wrinkling his nose a bit at the thought of it. Aili laughs.

“Don’t look so worried,” she admonishes gently, reaching over to lightly ruffle his hair, “She’s a baby, not a basilisk. She’s not going to eat you.”

“I feel that I would have more of an idea about how to handle a basilisk,” Fenris admits.

“You’ll do fine,” she assures him, “I’ll only be in the other room for a few minutes, and Nanae should be back with the herbs the healers suggested any time now. We’re all in this together.”

So saying, she drops a kiss onto the top of his head and walks away.

Fenris sighs deeply and moves his gaze back to the little bundle in his arms. He had almost missed her birth, as his supervisors were resistant to the idea of him getting leave to travel out of Arlathan for the delivery of a child that was not even his own. Luckily, General Lavellan had interceded on his behalf, and Squish and Haninan and half a dozen other friends and acquaintances and all piled him with presents to bring to the expecting couple and their new arrival.

She is a tiny little thing. All pink faced with wrinkly fingers, and a few tufts of fair-colored hair that seem likely to become a mop of curls not unlike their mother’s. He finds it hard to imagine that he ever looked like this, that he was ever so small and clearly breakable, although he knows he must have been.

The years have faded some of his memories from the time just after Aili had found him, though he certainly remembers more of it than a normal child of that age would. Most of what he recollects is tinged with frustration and confusion and fear. He hopes that it is not a normal occurrence for children to feel that way upon entering the world. He does not have enough experience with them to make a clear judgement about it either way. It would explain a lot of the crying, he supposes.

His sister wiggles slightly in her sleep, letting loose a tiny puff of emotion that mostly feels like contentment. For all the ugliness and horrors of Elvhenan society, Fenris can concede that, perhaps, the restrictions on child birth are not the most horrible idea. Of course, they still favor the higher-ranking elves with a disparity that he greatly resents, but the idea that no child born to the empire will be unwanted by their parents or want for food or clothing or a place to sleep… That is not such a bad thing.

He does not recall much of the first time he was a child. The dank smell of his master’s slave quarters. His mother’s rough, thin hands. Varania’s long red hair trailing behind her like a ribbon caught in a breeze.

He remembers the alienage in Kirwall though. And Darktown. With its orphans and its squalor. Children lost and starving. Roaming the streets in packs just to survive. Their sunken cheeks and haunted eyes peering out from the gloom, hungry for food and affection and home.

Looking down at his baby sister now, Fenris wishes he had done more for them, though he is not certain what. He had still been on the run from slave hunters. Living in a decaying manor out of spite, and barely managing to look after himself. Still.

Fenris smiles faintly when his sister scrunches up her face in her sleep. Did he ever hold Varania like this when she was small? Did he burp her and change her and feed her when their mother had to work? He thinks they must have played together, at the very least. And he must have loved her. Enough to risk life and limb and memory to set her free.

And she had turned on him even so.

The smile slides from his face just as his mother returns in a fresh tunic.

“Is something wrong?” Aili wonders, placing a hand on his shoulder and making no move to reclaim the baby in his arms.

“I…I do not think I have the personality to endear myself to children,” Fenris admits. If he could not make himself worthy of one sister’s familial affection, why should he think himself capable of earning another’s?

“You’ve never even met another baby except for Tonlen, and he was older than you,” Aili laughs.

“Even so,” he insists, “I am irritable and blunt, and… I do not have your patience, or Nanae’s generous nature.”

“Nonsense,” Aili scolds him, flicking his ear in a light reprimand, “You get annoyed with people who are annoying, which is hardly a fault. You are honest and giving and kind. You are a wonderful son, and you are going to be a wonderful big brother.”

Fenris swallows thickly, squirming slightly at the praise.

“Have you and Nanae thought of any names yet?” he asks.

“We’re still going back and forth on a few of them, but right now the leading contender is, ‘Mealla’,” Aili says.

“Mealla,” Fenris repeats, looking back down at the baby in his arms.

As if already aware that her name has been said, she slowly blinks her eyes open and stares up at him. Fenris holds his breath again, awaiting her judgement. There is a long pause between them, and then Mealla wiggles. She manages to break one arm free from her swaddle and pats a flailing chubby hand at his chest. Burbling all the while.

Aili grins widely.

“She likes you.”


	26. Little Shadow

Fenris is pacing.

Not moodily. His thoughts are mostly occupied with some professional matters. Scheduling, planning, that sort of thing. He had taken a look at his six month planner and found the boxes blurring together, and had opted to try sorting out his thoughts a little more freely - getting up to pace in front of the windows of his parents’ rural household.

It takes him a few moments to notice that he is not alone in this endeavour.

Tiny footsteps shuffle across the floor. Fenris glances to one side, and finds Mealla wobbling on her feet. Staring determinedly at the carpet, as she moves to follow him.

Walking is still new to her; though one might not guess so, given how thoroughly she has taken to it. Fenris keeps one eye on her as he resumes his pacing. Just watching to make certain that she doesn’t overtax herself, or fall over and get upset.

It takes him a few moments longer to realize that she is following him.

Walking when he walks. Stopping when he stops. Turning when he turns.

His lips twitch. He schools his expression into a more neutral one a moment later, though, and slows down his pace after his next turn. Mealla’s brows remain furrowed in concentration as she totters after him. When she finally catches up to him, she beams. Chubby cheeks dimpling and eyes crinkling, one tiny hand reaching out to secure a hold on his leggings.

“Fennu!” she exclaims, triumphantly.

He raises an eyebrow.

“Want up?” he offers.

Mealla shakes her head, though, and just tugs at his leggings. So after a moment he resumes walking - slowly. And his little sister keeps up with him, tiny legs working overtime even with the reduced pace. Every so often she falters. He pauses and waits, but she rebuffs all offers to be picked up, and seems very determined in her course. Though she also lets out displeased little huffs if he gets a step ahead.

Fenris lets this carry on for several minutes. Until they reach Mamae’s favourite chair, and then he looks down at Mealla again.

“I think we have finished pacing,” he suggests.

Mealla falls back onto her bottom, and nods at him in agreement.

“Okay,” she says.

“Want up?” he offers again.

She lifts her arms, so he bends down and scoops her up. She presses her cheek to his shoulder and curls one hand in his collar, as he twists around to check the time. Turning to do so gives him a view of the open doorway.

And their mother standing in it, beaming ear to ear.

Fenris sighs, more put-upon sounding than he really feels. He does check the time, too, and confirms that Mealla should be going down for her nap about now. Dutifully, he carries her over to their mother.

His sister makes a singular sound of protest, recognizing the pattern without even hearing the word ‘nap’. Aili shushes her, though, brushing back her curls and kissing her foreheard. And then she leans up and kisses Fenris’ forehead, too.

“No nap,” Mealla sullenly mumbles.

Fenris snorts, and bops her on the nose.

“Your spirit friends will be sad if you miss your play date with them,” he mentions.

Mealla wavers.

Aili takes the opening to start carrying her off to the nursery.

“Good job, big brother,” she says, with a grin.

He smiles back.

And then returns to his pacing.


End file.
